Did you ever notice how Jesus actually spent quite a bit of time taking care of the physical needs of his followers? And when he wasn’t seeing to those needs, he was talking about it?

A few verses as reminders (links open in a new window/ tab):

Luke 9:12-17 Jesus feeds thousands with a few loaves and fishes

Matthew 5:40-41 If someone wants your coat, give him your shirt, too

John 21:17 Jesus orders Peter to “feed my sheep”

Matthew 25:31 Jesus explains that giving aid to “the least of these” is the same as giving aid to God

Jesus is known as the Good Shepherd. Why? Because, like a good shepherd, He knew how to take care of His flock, physically and spiritually.

How many of the politicians currently in office—politicians who hold jobs that require them to serve the public—are being good shepherds? How many of those who want to hold public office have been good shepherds?

Our elected officials are there to serve us. They are there to make sure that our rights—”life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”, and all that this phrase entails—are being protected. They are there to be public servants, stewards for the country (or state or county or city).

How many of them are doing their jobs?

How many of them, instead, spend their time serving their needs by infringing on our rights through passing laws that give the government power over every aspect of our lives, by threatening our livelihoods through decimating our economy, by showing us they don’t care about our physical well-being through fighting proposals who would help the most down-trodding and needy constituents—”the least of these” that God Himself directs us to serve?

And how many of these public servants claim to be “Christian”? How many of them proclaim that they are following the path of Jesus? Are they truly doing that if they aren’t obeying His commands?

When we go to vote, should we not make sure that the people we vote into office actually demonstrate a desire to take care of us? Isn’t that the absolute basic requirement for being a public servant, a “shepherd” for one’s constituency?

In this political environment, it’s getting more and more difficult to distinguish the good shepherds from those who would gleefully let their flocks be taken by wolves.

Some of them invite the wolves to the table and serve the sheep on fine china.

Over the years, however, my tastes have changed. I still don’t appreciate gore (well, gratuitous gore, anyway). I don’t like watching human beings, with souls and personalities and loves, turned into meat for entertainment (even if the “turning into meat” part is all special effects). But chilling settings, the evocation of that sense of dread that a really well-written/ well-filmed/ well-acted horror story has? That has intrigued me more and more.

In the 1990s I started watching The X-Files, and I fell in love with the way its truly great scary stories pulled me in: “Ice,” “Home,” “Squeeze” and “Tooms”… I could easily name at least a dozen more episodes that really stuck with me. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode “Hush” has almost no dialogue and is one of the creepiest things ever filmed. It terrifies me — and I love it. More recently, episodes like “Asylum,” “Malleus Maleficarum,” and “My Bloody Valentine”of the show Supernatural (which, granted, does not skimp on the gore) have been added to my personal list of horror gems. I sat with interlaced fingers through films like The Ring, Paranormal Activity, Insidious, and  Apollo 18, but managed to enjoy them all the same. Appreciation for a well-done scare was an acquired taste for me, I suppose.

Having dipped a toe into the waters of horror, I became interested in the why of it — why do people like horror? What do they get out of it? I began reading books and articles about horror, eventually working my way to Stephen King’s 1981 non-fiction book Danse Macabre. In this book, which was inspired by a college course he taught, the book is a collection of essays about the nature of horror fiction. While I’ve never quite become a fan of King’s fiction, his breezy, witty non-fiction writing style is always entertaining to me.

In this book, King reviews a few horror titles, including the film adaptation of his own book Carrie. Among these reviews — which are primarily about how the creator of the work invokes its horror — is a review of Peter Straub’s 1979 novel Ghost Story. Although I had never read a book by Straub, I was intrigued by King’s description and I set out to read this book.

It was the scariest thing I’d ever read.

Honestly, I had to stop reading it for a while before I went back to finish it. I can’t really give any details as why it was so terrifying without giving away the story (there’s a pretty thorough synopsis on the book’s Wikipedia entry, if you’re interested. Beware spoilers). But I learned that Peter Straub is a master of stirring up a sense of absolute dread, that unequivocal knowledge that your doom lies just ahead, just around the corner… or on the next page. It was an amazing read, once I managed to brave my way through it.

Perhaps this was only my personal experience. Your mileage may vary, of course.

But I have to say that Peter Straub is an excellent writer. He is able to inject humor in a horror novel without taking away from the horror. That is something special — and something certain writers of The X-Files, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Supernatural already know. (Freddy Krueger would probably insist on making comment here about his own special brand of horror/humor. I won’t argue with him. He has metal-clawed gloves.) Straub’s humor is in his turn of phrase, the way he has his characters respond to the world around them. It makes the characters real. Their reactions make sense to the reader, and the reader can more readily identify with them. In turn, this makes the horror more real, because we sympathize with the characters experiencing that horror.

Since surviving Ghost Story, I’ve read one other Straub novel, the recently published A Dark Matter. While not as downright terrifying as his earlier work, A Dark Matter, I think, succeeded more fully in bonding me to its many characters. The prose was beautifully written, each character’s voice unique and appropriate to his or her situation. The horror of that book was mitigated by an overall impression of hope. The characters endured horrors, yes, but mostly they emerged intact, with grace.

I’m currently working on the Straub story In the Night Room. I’ve only just started it, but I’m already amused by the text, and especially by the meta-text. Straub’s playing with levels of fiction and reality that I’ve encountered in only a few places: Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next novels, the Buffy episodes “Superstar” and “Normal Again,” and the episodes “Hollywood Babylon,” “Ghostfacers,” “The Monster at the End of this Book,” “The Real Ghostbusters,” and “The French Mistake” of Supernatural (that show loves its meta-text). I don’t know where Straub’s going with this. But I like it. Even if it’s scary.

I’ll just read through interlaced fingers.

And now, Wasp Wars! continues…

After we found the geocache in the woods, we took time to walk down to the creek bank and enjoy the views of High Falls. We crossed back to the other side, where I faced one of my other fears: heights. We walked to the edge so I could take pictures of the falls and the natural arch. Me 1, acrophobia 0 (well, if you don’t count my quick skitter away from the edge once I had my pictures). We went back toward the parking area, and though my dad was willing to make the hike down to the bottom of the falls, I was less enthusiastic. Maybe it was the sign that said “A difficult hike will take you to the base of the falls” (emphasis mine, although I believe that should have been underlined on the sign. I mean, if that’s not an “emphasis everyone” situation, what is?). After our excursion into the woods to get the geocache, I wasn’t in the mood for any difficult hikes. So we made our way back up the road to the car. We were ready to head home, looking forward to the simple “park and grab” cache waiting for us at the gate.

(Side note: a “park and grab” cache is one that the person hiding the cache believes will be very easy to find. You only need the time to park and grab the cache.)

This cache had been hidden by a Geocacher whose methods were familiar. I had a pretty good idea of where the cache was. (If you are planning to geocache near High Falls and don’t want your trip spoiled, skip the rest of this. See ya!). We pulled up to the gate, and my GPS led me to climb out of the car and head to the stop sign. A small cache with a magnet can easily hide in the gap between the pole and the sign. I’ve used this technique myself. And, in fact, I could see the little keyring on the bottom of the tube-shaped cache poking out from the bottom of the sign. I reached in, grasped the ring, pulled it out…

And the ring was still there, attached to the tube and stuck behind the sign. I had pulled “something” out from that sign, and my only clue to that something’s identity was the very angry buzzing of a wasp hovering near the top of the sign.

In one of the fastest activations of my reflexes in a while, I flung the mystery object–which I had deduced was that hovering wasp’s buddy, or girlfriend, or co-worker–away and hightailed it back to the car. While this may not seem very brave, I must confess that I don’t care.

I got in the car and said “Dad there’re wasps around that cache!” My dad, who must have been highly entertained by my escape gyrations, serenely got out of the car and went over to the sign. An attempted grab at the cache angered the wasp committee, who proceeded to strongly encourage my dad’s return to the car. Dad would not be dissuaded. He grabbed a stick and said “I’ll get that cache out” and went back to the stop sign. A poke up behind the sign to pull the cache out only succeeded in luring out more wasps… and luring my dad back to the car. Undaunted, Dad said “I will get that cache out” and headed to the back of the car. He pulled on heavy work gloves, armed himself with a can of Off! and the stick, and marched resolutely back to that sign. The wasps hovered in rage, but Dad deflected their attacks with bug spray and the stick. He even grabbed a wasp in his gloved hands and tossed it away. It was like Aragorn casually swinging his sword and knocking orcs off left and right. Then Dad sprayed the sign, poked the cache with a stick, and pulled it out.

He brought me the cache, which I received as if it were the spoils of war. Which it kind of was. While I signed it, he said, “I’ll take care of the nest,” and went back to the sign. A few more sprays and pokes, and the wasp nest fell out of the sign. He also offered this to me–as spoils of war?–but I declined. Vehemently. After Dad put the cache back in the sign, he returned to the car and asked me if I was sure I didn’t want the nest as a souvenir. I said “NO! It probably has more wasps in it!” To which my dad replied with a grin, “Well, just the larvae. They probably wouldn’t bother you.” My dad is a unique guy.

We had a couple of other caches that we could have hunted in that area, but after climbing massive rocks and battling wasps, we decided that we had done enough geocaching that day. Exhausted by our adventure, our barbaric desire for the (geocache) hunt temporarily sated, we returned home, a little wearier, a little sweatier, a lot wiser. Or something.

And then we went out for hot wings.

The end.

Instead, I shall share a tale of adventure that was had during my most recent trip back to Alabama, to visit my folks. It costars my dad, who is a fantastic father in many ways, not least of which is his total enthusiasm for joining me in my zany adventures. If this story were to be filmed for a feature, it would need extra money in the budget to hire Robin Williams to play my dad. Those of you who know my dad know that this is totally perfect, eerily accurate casting. Also I would get to meet Robin Williams.

Anyway, here is the story of Wasp Wars! (insert adventure-type music here)

(Side note: in the future I’ll share more about one of my favorite ways to waste time offline–Geocaching. For now I’ll simply say it is sort of a world-wide scavenger hunt in which players use their GPS devices to find “geocaches.” You can read more about it here.)

Since I got a GPS for Christmas a couple of years ago, I’ve been geocaching when I have the time. For most of those geocaching trips, my dad has been my accomplice. Since moving to Miami I haven’t been able to geocache much, mainly because  it’s hard to find a place to park in Miami–and harder still to look casual wandering around a random corner by yourself when your goal is to spend 5 to 30 minutes hunting for a small container the size of a pill bottle, and all you have are coordinates and a ROT13-encoded hint that says “look down.” So my best and most successful geocaching adventures happen in North Alabama, where the parking is plentiful and the people are less so. My dad is a good hunter and a good lookout for when I’m doing the hunting. He will also do brave and often crazy things in the name of getting a geocache: he ran across a highway once.

A week or so ago I was back visiting my family, which almost always includes at least one geocaching trip. So one day my dad says “you know where I want to go? High Falls.” High Falls is a really beautiful, somewhat remote location in DeKalb County that features a 35-foot high waterfall and a natural bridge/arch. I’d been there before but my dad hadn’t. I agreed that we should go and decided to see if there were any geocaches in the area. To my delight, there were two. So I plugged the coordinates into my GPS and off we went.

One of the geocaches was near the front gate at High Falls Park. I suggested we wait to get that one until we were leaving the park, and my dad agreed. The other looked to be in the woods just across a wooden footbridge that spans the creek above the falls. It was here that we ran into the first “adventurous” part of the adventure. First of all, to get to the top of the waterfall entails a semi-lengthy walk down a gravel access road. Then, you have to walk further through the woods to get to the creek and the footbridge. And it is mid-July and quite humid. And I am allergic to–and also quite tasty to–mosquitos. And I forgot the bug spray. So my absolutely wonderful, fabulous dad walks back up the road to the car and brings me bug spray, while I take pictures of the woods.

Once we got down to the footbridge, we walked around a bit and took pictures before we ventured into the woods across the creek. These woods featured a “trail” that more closely resembled a dried-out riverbed, complete with rocks and debris that made for a fantastic agility course. There were also these amazing, tiny little frogs everywhere. It’s a really cool spot. Except for this day, when it was a really warm, humid spot. It was also very shady, which probably helped with the heat but not so much with my GPS, which responds to trees as most people do to flash mobs–confusion, hostility, and a refusal to cooperate. It started hovering near the geocache coordinates, but kept bouncing around, even while I was standing still. Since this particular geocache was listed without any hints, all we had to go on was that we were looking for an ammo box, hidden somewhere in the woods. (If you are planning to geocache in the High Falls area, don’t let yourself be spoiled. Go read something else. Bye!)

Now, one benefit of my getting a GPS is that my understanding of the coordinate system has grown at a geometric rate, from “wasn’t that 5-note tune in Close Encounters code for coordinates to Devils Tower?” to “the numbers get bigger if you go more north or more west.” Also, I do remember that the sun rises in the east and sits in the west. These skills were sufficient for me to point in one direction and say “we need to go more that way.”

Unfortunately, “more that way” was a 30-foot rock. For my dad, who did run across that highway once, this was no obstacle. When I said, “I think it’s up there on that rock,” he said, “okay, I’ll go look,” and he started climbing.

At this point I should note that my dad is 72. (He rocks! No pun intended.)

Dad got about halfway up the rock, where there was a ledge, and started looking around. My job was to stand there and make sure the coordinates were on track. The coordinates were dancing around like groupies at a Justin Bieber concert, and I was standing there wondering if I should start climbing as well. Finally Dad said that there was no ammo box on the ledge, and kept climbing. Eventually, he called out that he’d found something.

Now, my dad firmly believes that he is my assistant in this whole geocaching thing. While on occasion he will navigate the odd highway to retrieve a container for me, so that I can sign the log stored within, for the most part he is content to help me and to let me do the actual finding/retrieving. So, even though he found the box, he was happy to let me open it. This is a system I really like. Except when I have to climb a 30-foot rock. Still, my dad helped me find a good foothold and we managed to get me up to the top of the rock. The ammo box was right there, under a little ledge and just out of the way of any casual observers (though how casual would an observer be if he or she had just climbed a freaking rock?). It was also the home to two lovely Daddy-Long-Legs spiders. After having a good case of the heebie-jeebies (yes, I don’t like spiders, go on, laugh), I pulled out the box, got out the logbook, and signed it.

The hard part was over, right? Not quite. (To be continued…)

As I was listening to this beautiful work, I suddenly found myself smiling through a sheen of tears. I’m not exactly certain why. I can only say that something in this music produced a sort of joyous yearning in my chest, a feeling that had no other way to express itself. I find that Copland’s music tends to affect me in this way.

Appalachian Spring is one of Copland’s more popular works. Like many of his compositions from the 1940s onward, it moved away from the avant-garde experimentation of his early years and instead utilizes uniquely “American”-sounding idioms — folk-tune influences, open chords, heavy use of winds. As with Rodeo and Fanfare for the Common Man, it is to that “American” feel that most people ascribe its success. Some of these same scholars have found fault in Copland’s “American” style music, stating that he should have kept moving forward with the experimental vibe of his early years, instead of writing more “popular” style music (musicology’s version of “selling out,” I suppose).

But Copland desired to write music in an expressly American idiom, and in that he succeeded. And maybe it’s simply that idiom that moves me so. I think I can hear in those wide-open intervals, fourths and fifths droning under the “Shaker” melody and its variations, the yearning of the America of the past, when the wide-open spaces of farms and fields were home to families and simpler times. This is of course a fiction – there are no “simpler times” because each era comes with its own struggles and tragedies. But it is what we wish for, especially in this stressful present, when war and pain and suffering and hate are daily realities that we cannot escape.

I think, however, that what I really hear in this music, and what brings both tears to my eyes and a smile to my lips, is the beauty in the notes. What went through my mind as I drove home, accompanied by this masterpiece, was “This is a creation of beauty. We humans destroy, but we also create. We may be creatures of horror, but we are also creatures of wonder. And this, this music, proves that.” Maybe it’s naivety, but I prefer to think of it as hope.  Appalachian Spring was produced by a human being. We can be more than just destroyers, haters, killers. We can bring beauty into being. At least, that’s what I hope for.

That’s what I yearn for.

(PS: If you haven’t heard or seen Appalachian Spring in its entirety, the whole ballet is currently available on Youtube. Martha Graham is an amazing performer! I created a playlist of the four clips, which you can access here.)

(PPS: I cannot provide citations for my musicological notes on Copland and his critics. It’s late at night, and my brain is sleepy. But I have read that such criticisms have been leveled at him in the past. So take my “scholarly position” with a grain of salt.)

Domino entered my life for an eventful 15 hours this weekend, in an adventure I have dubbed “The Great Miami Dog Caper of 2010.”

I am driving home about 6pm, when I decide to take an alternate route to my apartment. Turning down a fairly busy avenue off Sunset Drive in Miami, I see a small dog in the middle of the road. At first I plan to just drive on by, but as I watch him, I see two things: he has a collar, and he is scared. He darts back and forth in the middle of the road, never actually getting off the pavement. In a flash, I decide to try to get him off the road and see if I can find his owner based on the information on his tag.

I pull over and spend a good five minutes coaxing the little guy off the road. He is a small, black and white terrier (Rat or Jack Russell, I don’t know), friendly, well groomed, and adorable. When he finally comes close enough for me to grip his collar, I discover the first hitch in my plan — no tag.

No problem. I can handle this. I deposit my new pal in my car and began a slow tour of the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed to be looking for a puppy. I stop at every person who is outside his or her house and ask, “Excuse me, do you know this dog?” Despite the “oh it’s a crazy woman” looks I get from the people as I pull up to them, everyone is friendly, concerned, and interested. Everyone is also unfamiliar with the dog.

Meanwhile, my new friend has gotten used to me, and is showing his love for mankind by trying to sit in my lap and by licking my hand. So at least he doesn’t want to kill me. Plus one for Amy! At this point I start thinking I may have to find the guy a place to stay for the night, and I am not allowed to have dogs in my apartment. I try calling my boss to see if she knows anyone who can house him for the night, but I get no answer. Being new to town, I don’t have any one else to call.

At a loss for a course of action, and running low on gas, I go for a fuel-up and called my go-to source for Internet searching when I’m on the road — my mom. We spend several minutes getting numbers for the Humane society, emergency vets and animal hospitals. One number is disconnected, one goes to an answering service, and one leads me to a computer. I finally reach a helpful person who says that I COULD take him to the Humane society… except they close at 6pm. It is now nearly 7pm.

I decide to try calling the local PetCo to see if they have any suggestions. A woman brings up the possibility that he has a microchip. She offers to check him for one if I can bring him by the store. The dog and I head to the store, where we meet several people from the Broward County Humane Society, who are holding an “adopt a puppy” event at the store. We check the little guy for a chip–he’s nervous and fidgety around the new people, but he behaves very well. And the chip? Nonexistent. I wasn’t really surprised. This is about par for the course for my luck. The Humane Society ladies tell me that they cannot take him for the night, because they aren’t allowed to accept animals on their adoption tours. They do give me a small supply of puppy chow and contact information for their offices.

By this time (around 8:30pm), I have driven the neighborhood about half a dozen times. My new buddy has been a perfect angel, and is now sleeping soundly in the passenger seat. My mom has found the address for a 24-hour animal clinic, and I give it a shot. Again, very nice people, very friendly and sympathetic, and they only accept animals to be boarded from 9am to 3pm. No exceptions.

Okay. I have accepted the reality that I have a new (temporary) roommate. I stop by a Dollar Store and buy some rope, so he has a leash, and then I head home. After a walk in the yard, and a clandestine move that would make James Bond proud, I have him in my apartment. I have placed my parakeet, Sydney, in the guest room so that our puppy friend won’t be tempted to bark at him. The dog continues to behave very well, abiding by my request to “be quiet so I don’t get in trouble,” and making not a sound for several hours. He eats some kibble, drinks some water, and lays on a pillow I have placed on the floor, dozing while I do more internet searches for what to do with him now.

After some consideration, I finally decide on a three-step course of action. I will get up early, take the dog back to his neighborhood for one last sweep. If I can’t find the owner, I will drive to the Humane Society in Fort Lauderdale and leave him there. Then, I will print out copies of a flyer I have made (with the picture you see above) and take them back to the neighborhood. He’ll be taken care of, and maybe I can track down his owner.

Midnight. Bedtime. And a bit of a battle. My pal wants to share my bed. I give it the old college try, but my desire to be able to roll over without crushing a small creature overrides my sympathy for his big puppy eyes, and I relegate him to the pillow. After about a quarter hour of soft whining and restless wandering around my bedroom, he finally settles down and we get some sleep.

At 7am this morning, I wake up to a sense of being watched. Raising up, I see a precious face staring at me in eagerness. Worrying about the possibility of an accident, I throw on my clothes, grab my keys, move Sydney to the window in my room… and discover that my worry is a little belated. Mr. Puppy has already left me a present. No time to fret. I spray the spot with Resolve, tie his leash on, grab his food, and sneak out the apartment building a la Jason Bourne.

We stop at the nearby park and go for a stroll. It’s nice this early — I don’t often see this time of day on the weekend. After breakfast for the dog, we head to his neighborhood. About twenty minutes of driving, and I see no one searching, and no signs posted. I sigh and tell him “We’re going to Fort Lauderdale.” A stop for a soda and a snack for me, and a bottled water for him, and we hit the road.

He doesn’t like I-95, and I can’t blame him. Even this early, the traffic is a bit crazy. He paces back and forth on the passenger seat, tangling himself in the leash until I have to pull over and unwind it from his legs. After about half an hour of driving and puppy petting, we make to the Society. My canine buddy is again nervous with new people, but he is still sweet, and allows the lady to look him over, check him (again) for that nonexistent microchip. Like me she notes his collar, his cleanliness, and his demeanor and says “someone has loved him.” She also sees that he’s been neutered. He obviously has an owner, somewhere. She assures me that they will hold him for 5 days before placing him for adoption, so that the owners may have a chance to retrieve him. I take a receipt with his “case number” and say goodbye to my 15-hour pet. A sniffly Amy returns to Miami via the scenic route of Fort Lauderdale beach, to distract me from the sad little eyes of the boy I left behind.

I reach Miami around 10:30. At noon the campus library, where I can make copies, opens. I make the copies and return to the neighborhood, where I realize that this is going to be an effort — it’s a big neighborhood. Three streets run parallel, with about five intersections at each. A flyer at every stop sign will take a while, and I may have to make more copies. Well, I’ve come this far. The guy deserves to get his family back, if I can make it happen. I start at the far end of the neighborhood, taping flyers to the stop signs. About fifteen minutes into my task, I realize that I’m getting turned around — I’m driving toward a sign that already has one of my flyers.

Except it’s not my flyer.

It’s a flyer that says “Have you seen Domino?” My buddy’s mug is on the page, with a contact number. Feeling a combined sense of relief (he can go home!) and frustration (why didn’t they post these BEFORE I drove him 30 minutes north?), I call the owner. He was grateful and thrilled to hear from me. He said he had spoken to people in the neighborhood that said I had come by, and he was hoping I would contact him. I gave him the information for the Humane Society, told him his baby, Domino, had been a very good boy, and he thanked me profusely.

Thus endeth the “Great Miami Dog Caper of 2010.” Why did I go to all of this trouble? Three reasons:

1. It’s my family’s lot in life to run into animals in need (someday I may tell the story of “The Alabama Dog Ranch.”)

2. Once I had him in my grasp, I couldn’t just abandon him to be hit by a car or taken by someone who wasn’t an animal lover. I had to follow the journey through to the end.

AND finally…

3. Just look at his widdle face!!!! Who can ignore that?

“Stairways to Heaven, Stairways to Hell” is a list of the best, worst, and weirdest covers of the Led Zeppelin classic, “Stairway to Heaven,” compiled by staff of the independent New York radio station WFMU. Currently sitting at 101 versions, this list contains some truly beautiful and truly odd “Stairways.” I have to say that while I love the content here, the formatting is a little confusing. So, for your listening pleasure and ease of browsing, I have compiled a little list of my favorite versions (all links below will open in a new window/tab).

Beatnix – in the style of the Beatles
Dash Rip Rock – a setting of “Stairway” to the tune of Skynyrd’s “Freebird”
Jon Brion – the music producer extraordinaire does a one-man version at a live show
Leonard Teale – a recitation by the late Australian radio star; very amusing and moving
Ludwig Von 88 – death metal style
Nashville Super Pickers – a fantastic bluegrass instrumental
Neil Pepper – a la Elvis Presley
Nick Barker and the Reptiles – a Southern rock (read: Lynyrd Skynyrd) style rendition
Pardon Me Boys – lounge singer “Steve and Eydie” duo
Raleigh Ringers – handbell version
Richard Cheese – cheesy (his pun, not mine) lounge singer style
Rock Lobsters – B52′s style
Vegimite Reggae – reggae version

Also, there is a link to the Stairway Suite, a set of instrumental variations in the styles of Franz Schubert, Gustav Holst, Glen Miller, Gustav Mahler, Georges Bizet, and, of course, Ludwig van Beethoven.

Finally, my absolute favorite Stairway is “Spliceways to Heaven” by Splice of Life, Inc., which was apparently premiered in May of 1984 on Dr. Demento’s radio show. It samples bits from famous rock songs together to form the text of “Stairway.” Hilarious. I can only get a few of the sources: the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” Styx “Lady,” and Kansas’ “Carry on Wayward Son” are recognizable, but most of the others go by so fast I can’t catch them. If anyone can provide me a list of the sources sampled, I would be thrilled and ever grateful!

So, enjoy a foray into the world of “Stairway” covers. If imitation truly is the sincerest form of flattery, then I hope Messieurs Page, Plant, Jones, and the late Mr. Bonham feel duly lauded.

When we are children, we are encouraged (if our parents are insightful enough) to stretch our imaginations to the fullest. We are read bedtime stories, told tales of family lore, and shown cartoons and family-oriented films of fantasy and adventure. We exercise our whimsy by “playing pretend” or “making believe” in our neighborhoods and school playgrounds, becoming Oscar-caliber actors and actresses who not only play at being heroes and villains, damsels in distress and knights in shining armor–we become those roles to the exclusion of real life… at least for an afternoon’s fun.

I like the phrase “make believe,” because it invokes a sense of creation. As children, we would become little creators, molding worlds not out of earth and stone and plants, but out of our own minds, based on what we wanted and wished. We had the power, simply by uttering the words “let’s pretend,” to bring to life fairy tales, mysteries, adventures, and horrors, to endanger the worlds we created and then to save them in the end. We were the gods of our own backyards.

As we grew up, however, our creative power of whimsy lost its strength, diminished by the responsibilities of approaching adulthood. We slowly stopped living in the moment and soon started living for the future, replacing the joy of playing and playing pretend with the desire and ambition for making a success for ourselves for tomorrow. At some point, we began to believe that imagination and whimsy, while still fun and entertaining, was no longer appropriate. A child playing tag is enchanting; an adult doing the same is unnerving. Adults are serious creatures, stern of face and deliberate of mood; they are not to indulge in childish ventures.

But the adults of the world indulge in all sorts of things worse than “playing pretend”. Decisions made by adults have a very real, and often very negative, impact on the world. Crime, pollution, political disputes, and wars are the creations of these serious, somber adults, who often see the world in a very narrow and rigid view, unable to use their imaginations to allow for other possibilities and other realities.

To this reality I pose the question: “Why?” While I understand that adulthood brings with it responsibility and the loss of the freedom of childhood, I see no reason for adults to sacrifice whimsy at the altar of duty. And I doubt that I am alone. Those adults who are authors, musicians, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, and directors–those who make their living by embracing the creative arts–those adults understand the power and beauty of whimsy. At least, the ones who enjoy their work do. And those whose jobs involve creating works of fiction for the rest of us to consume understand that adulthood does not have to crush whimsy and imagination underfoot at its arrival. Whimsy can and will endure.

If you have ever read a novel or watched a film and been lost in the story to the exclusion of the outside world, even if only for a moment, then congratulations! Your sense of whimsy has survived… perhaps a little worse for the journey to adulthood, but it is there, ready and waiting to help you create new worlds of the mind. And maybe in the creation of these new worlds, your mind will be ready to accept other possibilities and other points of view, so that your fellow adults, like the playmates of your youth, will become friends, instead of enemies.

There is a Buddhist concept called the “tulpa,” a thoughtform or creature that is brought to life through the effort to believe in it. It is said that monks, meditating and concentrating hard enough, could create this being. I like to think that anyone who has retained his or her imagination, has an army of tulpas at his or her side–monsters, ghosts and aliens; princesses and fairies and mermaids; cowboys, cops and robbers; friends and foes alike–soldiers created by the gods of the backyard, ready to stretch the muscles of an underutilized whimsy.

In December, I was invited to interview at the University of Miami. I flew down in January to interview and give a presentation. Everyone I met was exceedingly friendly and genuinely interested in learning about me. I came away from the three-day trip with the embers of excitement smoldering in my heart. I thought I might actually want this job. Of course, I kept my desire for the position a secret, mostly to prevent any “jinxing” of my fate (yes, I will admit to being somewhat superstitious at times).

In February UMiami offered me the job: a music librarian position at the rank of assistant professor. After considering the pros and cons between doing metaphorical cartwheels of joy over the knowledge that Miami wanted little ol’ ME(!!!), I decided to take the job. For me, the only true “con” was that I would have to move nearly 15 hours away from my family. Now, this was indeed a big drawback to the job. I am very close to my parents and have enjoyed being close enough to them to drive home for a weekend visit every month or so. However, this job is a marvelous opportunity for me: a faculty position at a prestigious university, and a job where I would get to combine two of my loves: music and librarianship. The perfect gig!

The thing about growing up is that you begin to have not only responsibilities, but also opportunities. Both can be gifts or burdens. Both can require sacrifices. Both can be rewarding. I discussed this particular opportunity with my mother, who, while understandably dismayed by the distance I would have to move, was very supportive and thrilled that I had the opportunity to grow professionally and personally. To paraphrase her comments, I am her “baby bird” that must leave the nest, and she is the “mama bird” that must let me go in order to “raise me right.”

Between February and today, I have completed one job, packed my belongings twice (once to move from my old apartment to a friend’s place, where I could bunk for a couple of months until the move to Miami), and gone through quite a bit of apartment hunting, negotiations, paperwork, and list-making. Amidst all of the hubbub surrounding the move, I’ve been pondering this change in my life and what it may mean. I arrived in Miami yesterday, but I will update this blog over the next few days/ weeks with the events of the past couple of months, as I have the time and concentration level to write them. In the meantime, I say “Hola Miami!”

My hometown church got its power back today. Even before power was returned, however, church members were coming together to find ways to help the community. Because the food in the freezer was in danger of thawing, meat was removed and cooked on an outdoor smoker, and volunteers delivered meals to people hard at work assessing their damaged homes. My church is not the only source of aid to those in need. The First Baptist Church, which suffered damage to its roof and loss of power, has set up aid stations and provided cooked meals for anyone who comes by. Other churches have opened as shelters or offered classroom space while the elementary, middle, and high schools are being repaired. As my father drove me through the town this afternoon so that I could see the damage, I also saw Red Cross volunteers, police, landscapers, power company employees, and other workers from all over north Alabama giving their time (paid or unpaid) to help rebuild the town.

The most obvious damage in our little city is the loss of hundreds of “old growth” trees. These gorgeous, huge trees have lined the city streets for decades, and provided much of the small-town charm for which Albertville is known. These trees are now gone. As a final insult to their legacy, many of these same trees were the source of the worst damage to homes. As they were buffeted by strong winds, their old and weakened root systems broke free of the soil and they toppled onto roofs and through walls, crushing homes, businesses, and automobiles. City councilman Chuck Ellis stated that “the landscape of our city has changed forever,” and while that statement may seem melodramatic, it is the truth. Structures that were hidden from the horizon are now visible for the first time. Streets are unrecognizable because landmarks are gone. Our landscape was shaped by nature through the gift of our lovely trees. Now nature has taken those gifts away.

I mourn the loss of life that this storm brought with it. I rejoice that my friends and family are unharmed. I am in awe of the power of God’s creation and nature’s destruction. And I am grateful that my community can come together to counteract the horrors of nature with the beauty of human kindness.

Some of what I saw today can be found here.