#saraBmusic - song: Manhattan (Live at the Variety Playhouse) from The Blessed Unrest

The tender-hearted ballad of Sara leaving Manhattan:

"What's holding us together is simply fear of what's already changed."

 

Try to listen to this without thinking back on all the endings you've experienced?

 

The words and music are simple and profound; beautifully sad, and sublime. Again, let me dedicate this to my classmates in HP 1983; with whom I shared so much back in September.

 

She is a a major talent, just waiting to break out.
Good-bye 2013... Auld lang syne. --Mark

Why We Must Struggle

If we have not struggled
as hard as we can
at our strongest,
how will we sense
the shape of our losses
or know what sustains
us longer or name
what change costs us,
saying how strange
it is that one sector
of the self can step in
for another in trouble,
how loss activates
a latent double, how
we can feed
as upon nectar
upon need?

Excerpt from Say Uncle, copyright ©1991by Kay Ryan

(Dedicated to my thinking friends in the HPHS Class of 1983)

Coming back to Earth (Installment #4)

Thoughts on my 

High School Reunion

After 30 years I realized that these are my people,

Diverse and transformed but still very mindful.

Cutting through the fray, bringing the truth into view,

Walking through the years was humbling and new.

With knowledge and understanding, classmates poured out their hearts;

Where do you live, howzur family, where do I start!?

So many present, too many missing;

We did a whole lot of hugging and even some kissing.

Happy smiles, warm hugs, I can’t believe we’re pushing 50.

Girls from Dallas were fabulous, and the boys looked nifty.

You’d think after three days, we’d run out of bull,

But knowing that time was short was a subconscious pull.

Which night was most special, whom did you meet?

I came home with a throbbing head and raspy voice, but I was tapping my feet!

After such long separation, what did you see?

Did you hear what I said, did you listen to me?

History shared, good or bad, up or down;

Some brought spouses, some came from faraway towns.

Will you meet me in Dallas, not in just 5 years, but ten?

For a few this was it; we’ll never see you again.

Loud music, cheap beer, laughter and yelling,

If there’s a better plan for ’23, the officers aren't telling.

I’m glad there were no good-byes, we went quietly into the night, the DCC shut us down and closed all the doors very tight.

There wasn’t enough time to tell every story,

Try as we did, we couldn’t rehash all the glory,

Some of us were bigger, some of us were grayer,

Most had some bruises when you peeled back a layer.

Joy, freedom, relief, forgiveness, grace, humility, concern.

I met this with every friend to whom I would turn.

New faces, old lines, new stories, old truths,

Where did the time go? Squandered on youth?

I saw football stars cry, there were heathens squeaky clean;

Some of the nicest ladies I met, as coeds were quite mean.

Schadenfreude gave way to grace,

Humility overcame pride,

This reunion was lived from the inside.

All of us are damaged, everyone by now is broken;

These deep truths resonated in every word that was spoken.

As a large tree spreads its branches, so has the Class of 1983: crooked bends and gnarled bark showing the perennial effects of its growth.

However, the comfort & grace provided by its majestic canopy gives all who see it confidence and peaceful shade from the brutal environment.

I am so thankful for the blessing of returning to Dallas, and coming together again for my 30^th reunion. It surpassed all my expectations, which started pretty big, as you read on August 5^{th  (previous post).}

We have a wonderful group of friends and a solid base to which we will return, Lord willing, in 10 years. Thank you for an enduring set of memories, especially Saturday night when Jason spoke. I’m sure often I will pause to remember, until the images fade. 

By then, in another decade; more poets, sages, elders, and saints will arrive with more stories to tell; and I fully expect the relief and gratitude then, will exceed even this memorable event. Words really cannot express that loving spark between two old friends, who look deeply into each other’s eyes and relish the moment of remembrance and celebration of the present. 

We've come to an understanding that aging is a journey with many unplanned stops; and that we are so appreciative to have made it this far. Walls came down and the Spirit entered over the rubble. Loving camaraderie transcended gender, age, body shape, socio-economic status, geography, even history; as time’s leveling effect set us on a course of winsome reunion. 

Soaring on the updraft of good times, I glided home on the long migration south to Houston, landing firmly in reality on Monday morning. No voice, bronchitis, too much unfinished work. 

But we saw a glimpse of heaven and I will never forget it.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

After Night #2 in Dallas... 30th High School Reunion

Thoughts on Night Two of the Class of 1983 High School Reunion

Blogging “real-time” from my 30^th reunion has been fun, and I want to thank you, faithful reader for telling me you enjoyed my writing. Greater thanks to all the volunteers directed by our class officers who pulled off this amazing weekend.

After two nights on the story, there is still a little left to tell. With a wooden head and raspy voice, I sit back down to report the Class of 1983 is alive and well:

Again, love dominated the emotional mood last night at the Stoneleigh P. Although the crowd was slightly different, the vibe stayed the same: no one with whom I talked bounced around the truth with B.S. The sensible “three-day” process played out brilliantly; allowing all of us the opportunity to speak with many different classmates, and enough time to dig a little deeper.

The emotional notes of the evening were played with such care, reminding me of a virtuoso hunched over a piano: Coldplay’s Chris Martin, Peanuts’ Linus, or even Mozart. Delicately touching the keys, softly playing the notes of each other’s stories; it was a beautiful performance.

Scattershooting, while wondering where are Fronterhouse, Krebs, or Holmes, or Hamlin?

• I heard about trumpets, toddlers, teens, and theology
• I watched some very bored spouses, trudging valiantly through the hours 
• Did you know about a couple of romances that just got started between classmates?
• Talked about love and loss, and those who won’t be present tomorrow; like Patrick or Alex

• Texas towns are as different as siblings, both very similar and yet independent; classmates came in from all over the state!

• I learned about a couple of grandkids, and one lawyer’s ginormous billing rate!

I learned how expensive parking can be, and I even snapped a few pictures

One friend told me he probably wouldn’t have attended if not for reading my blog post from August 5th; and that made my trip worth the trouble. I got to thank him for what he showed me thirty years ago—and again last night: courage.

I suppose all the laughing and the loving will culminate tonight; and eventually I will pick my pen back up to try to write as I verbally wrap my mind around the experience; however, I can say it will be hard to capture the electricity, the inspiration, the joy this reunion has provided to the many who gathered in Dallas after 30 years.

I’m honored that you took the time to read so far, thank you for being kind enough to say so. The grace shown to me over the past couple of days has been heart-warming and encouraging. I hope to see you one more time tonight at the club; but if not, safe travels, may the long Texas highway rise ahead to meet you, and my hope is that you will stay in touch:  markpills@ymail.com

©Mark H. Pillsbury

The Four L's of the High School Reunion

Opening Night of the Class of 1983

I never thought I would be blogging “real-time” from my 30^th reunion, but after attending the first night's festivities, I was overwhelmed with positive feedback, so I will try again.

[Note:  we'll see how many people really follow-up with a view at this installment; now that we’ve all come here to Dallas to celebrate our 30^th reunion. The build-up is over, the event has kicked-off!

The comments on Facebook© this morning speak to a lot of this; it was funny how so many drank a little too much, and thought the music was too loud?!]

I was blown away. For a group pushing 50, everyone looked very good. Too busy living life to focus on this reunion as much as the two previous reunions; I perceived the Thursday night group was as pure as I can expect for a group of Highland Parkers. Maybe it was the lack of spouses at the event last night, but it got real in a hurry.

My impression was that raising your kids in Highland Park was not as big a priority as the last time we met. In 2003, it seemed a badge of honor to afford, live, and send your kids to Highland Park schools.

This time, it seemed that people were just glad to be in attendance; notwithstanding the neighborhood in which they lived. Much of the conversation was going back to the points together in school, just as much as what we do in the present day.

The fact that so many people thanked me personally for writing what I thought about the approach to this 30th reunion shows me that the space between our lives is smaller than we think. This is a breakthrough weekend.

On the drive into Dallas, the satellite radio “oldies channel” prepared me for the thoughts I had tonight. The period music took me back to the places where it played as a soundtrack to high school. The time in the presence of my old friends did the same thing.

Quick thoughts about “expectations” for those who are coming in today:

Just hug your friends, everyone deserves a good hug. It’s been too long

Listen for those dramatic turning points in their story where life turned on a dime

Tell your story in a few words, respecting the difficulties that brought your friends to this place; they are just as important facts as yours

Parents love to talk about their kids! Listen to the “child stories” and re-live the joy of mothers and fathers; so many have watched their babies grow up and leave the nest

Acknowledge the pain, and the joy that your friend endured or celebrated in order to arrive at this place tonight

I want to specifically remember something about another person and our time together in school, thirty years ago; especially so I can thank them for what they did to make it so fun back in the 70s and 80s. The world was such a different place and the culture dealt with fewer deep issues, in my opinion.

Listen. Laugh. Love. Live. Those four L’s are the touch-points of this reunion.

See you tonight at the P.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Open Letter to the Class of 1983

See you in September

I can’t decide whether I'm more excited about college football starting again, or the few weeks until my 30^th high school reunion. Thoughts go back to those years when your age seemed frozen and the future appeared far off in the distance; the way you feel when you have plenty of time before a flight, checked-in and ready—no pressure, no hurry.  We were comfortable back in the 70s & 80s.

My class graduated in late May 1983, and although we had no idea about Madonna when her album debuted that summer, we launched out from there; lives moving rapidly from one stage to the next, unevenly aligned with decades, but furiously reaching one road sign after the next. Most of us went off to college, many stayed in Texas, some even settled in Big D to raise their families. Won't a few of you from faraway lands come to this reunion?! It would be fun to guess who comes from farthest away. London, Hawaii, Australia?

How can we be at the third reunion? Each celebration so far has been unique in its theme:

• 10^th was just another big party like many of the weddings I attended; pretty nervous walking up to Winfrey Point clubhouse, I pondered why I hadn't given the concept much thought?
• 20^th was the “Vice-President Reunion,” as everyone climbed the ladder of success rapidly and came ready to show off their progress. (How could everyone in the room be a Vice-President?). I thought it a fairly insincere bridge from the early reunion to the upcoming milestone of 2013.

My impression is that with this class reunion, all who attend will feel lucky to be there, and everyone by this time has taken some lumps:  suffered through some bout of death, divorce, disease, disaster, and/or depression. It will be something from which we did not overcome with the same pride and fervor thought to have come so easily at our 20^th anniversary.

"That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond." From Ann Voskamp’s quote there is encouragement to seek conversations and renew relationships in a sincere, transparent way; allowing friends to see through the thin, torn patches in one's personal tapestry, for they are the passages by which one sees the real insides of my being, and hopefully the beautiful light of God beaming through them.

I believe this time the grace of a group approaching their 50s outstrips our natural tendency to fudge, judge, or peacock in front of our classmates. This platform of life takes time and skill to climb onto; and so we welcome our friends to a wonderful point in which the pretense of success, status, and class, pale in comparison to the love and joy we will experience as we share each other’s foibles, struggles, and humility.

At first it will be difficult to peel the layers of the onion back; we’ll fall back to the natural, “I’m great, the kids are super; Yes, I do have it all put together just as it seems.” However, as we break through to authenticity, it's fortunate that we really made it here at all, considering what has happened; at this point there is hope for a renewed camaraderie among humble old friends. This reunion presents a rare opportunity to re-connect, review, and even de-construct some of the "archetypes" manifested in previous meetings. But how many of the graduates have the courage to show up and tell their (real) story?

My story certainly has some twists and turns too strange for fiction, and I know that your story will take my breath away at some point during its telling. It’s been such a long time since we thought of each other, but thankfully there’s still so much we have in common. There are strong mysterious links which enchain the heart to the regions where the morn of life was spent.

With all due respect to the writing of Gail Godwin in her novel The Finishing School, I am expecting to meet two kinds of people at my 30^th high school reunion:

“One kind, you can tell just by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves.

It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it.” These people are doing just fine with themselves and I say, “more power to ‘ya,” or to be perfectly frank, and to use the phrase so enthusiastically used in the South when we just don’t quite know what to think: “well, bless your heart?!”

Godwin’s character Ursula continues, “Whereas, the other kind keeps moving, changing. With these people, you can never say, “X stops here,” or “Now I know all there is to know about Y.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re unstable. Ah, no, far from it. They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young.”

“In my opinion,” Ursula says, “They are the only people who are still alive.”

One unambiguous characteristic of this second group of people will surely be that they seize life with gusto. Contrary to the self-doubt that creeps into my mind sometimes when I think of the ups and downs of my career path; at least I had the courage to change, when the time to change was apparent. I will likely gravitate to and appreciate those who took on life’s challenges with passion, and I look forward to reliving some of my friends’ most perilous moments. 

To quote Jack London’s credo as told by a reporter named Ernest Hopkins:

“I would rather be ashes than dust!

 I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

 I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

 The function of man is to live, not to exist.

 I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

 I shall use my time.”

For those of us who make it back to HP in September, may that credo be the cry of the class of 1983.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part III: tribute to lost fire-fighters (fictional 9-11 story)

Part III of the 9-11 Saga: Tribute to Fallen Fire Fighters

Mike and his dad returned to the apartment and flipped on the television, instantly seeing the horror of what the planes had done: two distinct columns of smoke rising into the sky, and floors burning in the middle of the Twin Towers.

Presumably on duty, his fire-fighter brother Patrick did not answer his cell phone, but Mike was soon paged to return to his unit immediately. Every first-responder mobilized in those early hours of the 9-11 tragedy, many commuted into the city as thousands fled.

He didn’t like leaving his aged father Jim O'Keafe alone in front of the television, worrying about his beloved son in the city and his other one heading toward the call of duty; but during the drive into Manhattan, Michael O’Keafe continued to ponder the nature of duty, family, and his upbringing. Having spent the morning on the lake contemplatively, it wasn’t difficult to consider the strange reality that he was probably closer to his work colleagues through their bond of a shared mission, than he was to his own family? He knew it in his gut.

Already anguished with interior conflict, the snarled traffic only increased the anxiety. During these thoughts, out of love and concern for his brother Patrick O’Keafe; he wondered what makes one human being head into an inferno, despite the danger, in order to save another, even one whom he hasn’t met?

His head throbbed uncontrollably, and with visceral churning Mike felt the natural effects of both internal and external chaos. He sensed the demise in the gloomy sky in front of him, light obliterated. The smoke's murkiness thickened into nightfall the closer he drove into Manhattan.

He pictured Patrick leading his company into a World Trade Center Tower in order to battle the asymmetrical threat of a raging fire. How does a single individual fight something as large as a commercial structure engulfed in flames?

Again he thought about art school, painting, and living by the Pacific instead of Manhattan, as well as the split-second judgment required to avoid fire-fighting catastrophe. Two different worlds balanced in his subconscious.

If  “purpose” is the eternal condition for success, how many fire-fighters actually feel the calling or purpose of their work, especially as they venture headlong into danger, even the kind of which might jeopardize their lives?

©Mark H. Pillsbury

[Part One posted September 10, 2011, see previous posts...]

Part II: Tribute to the lost firefighters of 9/11, continued... second installment:

[Author's note: the first installment of my fictional 9/11 series was written 18-months ago, but listening to Brene Brown, and a trip to New York prompted more writing about the family O'Keafe. Although the tragic events of September 11th are painfully true, everything written below is fiction]

[any connection to deceased is coincidental and not meant as a truthful reference]

Escape

Out on the lake, in this pristine state park, Michael cleared his head. Fishing pulled his dad out of his comfort zone, onto a battlefield without sure footing. Whether the quiet nature of the sport, or the serene isolation of this oasis, Michael’s excursion into the suburbs today reminded him of Tim McGraw’s song: Live like he was dyin’ “All of a sudden goin’ fishin’ wasn’t such an imposition.” Michael could see things as they are (or were) meant to be seen on this clear September morning. (see previous post, September 10, 2011; a bad day fishing...) http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-9-11-tribute-in-fiction.html

Unfortunately today he confronted the rawness and ugliness his father showed him over the years. A constant, intimidating flow of his upbringing’s lifeblood, gave course to fear and spread the worst contagion a parent bestows upon his children, that which is called shame. Today Mike felt strong enough to “feel,” down to the core, being open to joy and pain; most importantly owning all the shame poured over him through the years.

Shame wasn't exactly overt in his home, but it represented a strong O’Keafe family value. It wreaks more damage than a viral outbreak, because shame says to an immature child that you are not loved or lovable unless you meet often sensible, yet arbitrary expectations of the parent. Shame makes a kid feel small. Its potent sting paralyzes creativity and its anguishing power overcomes even the strongest-willed child.

Shame stunts in a child the ability to learn self-compassion because it is graceless, watchful, and critical; outweighing any compliment with a deluge of correction. Michael realized that Jim O’Keafe’s standards were held up, idolized, and projected upon his children; and to those who could not reach them; well, they were de-valued and unfit. As Michael engaged in this session alone with his thoughts on the lake, the engine off and no wind to drift the boat; his mind wandered off while watching the end of his line for tugs:

“Why didn't I study art in college?" he thought, "At least, then dropping-out would've been for the honor of art and not because I skipped too many classes, failed too many tests?” The pursuit of art slipped away from Michael once enrolled in the Fireman Academy, even though his dream of painting with oil and watercolor lived vividly in his subconscious. During unhurried, deliberate days filled with slow creativity, not rushed by pursuit of disaster; Michael expressed himself carefully, with great fulfillment. Did he become a fireman for the same reason his brother did, because their father willed them into the inferno?

Grieving his dreams became more important than catching fish today.

Existing in warm California, not New York; his fantasy artist life reflected a contemplative environment reduced to the priority of communicating the struggle and strength of life on canvas or paper. He taught art at a Junior College to make a living, but spent most of his hours pensive, smocked, and painting. Despite his love for impressionists his painting conveyed a sharp realism. He visualized and illustrated “real things” with an eye for natural beauty.

“I love to include enough detail so that the inquisitive mind must take apart the pieces of the scene like a puzzle,” Michael told his brother Patrick sometimes when they would talk during one of his exhibits, “The natural world is so complex, even without humans in my paintings; sometimes it’s beyond the viewer’s skill to unravel it?” Michael continued passionately, “I relish that difficulty, that tension; it is a big part of my fascination with art’s mystery.”

Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent;” as I sit here today, I believe my family denied me the freedom to describe, analyze, and interpret art, or life, for that matter. I did what I was told, mostly; even to the point of enrolling in the Fireman Academy; however, art, or the pursuit of art, saved me.

Michael believes his art is a creek or stream off of a mighty tributary called vulnerability. Art’s headwaters are from an energetic source which generates creative channels of light and life, but vulnerability is the courage to engage in all of life, whether good or bad, fortunate or dreadful. Today, on this lake, he is dealing with his upbringing, relationships with father and brother, and even the unfulfilled dreams of a thirty-something fireman from New York City. He sits serenely, the water laps against the boat.

Suddenly, Michael snapped out of his dream when a silver American Airlines jumbo-jet roared overhead flying low along the Hudson River, very close to Harriman Park. So close to the ground he saw the red glow of the turbo-jet engines; this airliner seemed to be racing too fast for a typical coast-to-coast journey of a jumbo-jet coming out of JFK. It pointed southward toward the city, rather than rising ascendant to a normal cruising altitude. His gut wrenched while his mind puzzled; Michael immediately thought of his brother Patrick J. O’Keafe, strangely absent from this fishing trip and now at the center of Michael’s consciousness watching the silver bullet speed toward Manhattan. (to be continued...)

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Beginning with the letter-A: Arbitrage

Another in a series beginning with the Letter-A:

Arbitrage

It’s better to understand arbitrage in the light of the circumstances that generate it, than to consider its success in the light of the disadvantaged.

“Greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures, the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge, has marked the upward surge of mankind and greed, you mark my words, will not only save Teldar Paper, but that other malfunctioning corporation called the U.S.A.” (quote by Gordon Gekko, from Wall Street, a Sony Pictures movie ©2001). Replace “greed” in Mr. Gekko’s speech with the word arbitrage.

Arbitrage: the root of a French word for referee or umpire, seemingly natural but at the same time unfair: jungle rules of market economics are realistic but not pretty. A mismarked item in a retail store rarely comes to the attention of the manager; on the contrary, a typical consumer buys as many mismarked widgets as they can afford.

Used as a verb, arbitrage means to make a strategic play, taking advantage of a situation for a quick gain: if we arbitrage futures on crude oil prices, based on our proprietary research, the profits can be huge!

Arbitrageurs gain an advantage because of sudden price differences between markets, statistically seizing the vyigrysh or “winnings” in Hebrew; however in another way, arbitrage means taking the lead, in a mismatch of circumstances and at a disproportionate risk ratio, compared to another. Gordon Gekko rose to Wall Street prominence by legally flipping real estate: buying distressed assets and quickly making them ready to market. But in a larger sense, Gekko’s evolutionary spirit expressed in arbitrage can be analyzed in light of the idea expressed by Jewish philosopher Leo Strauss, “it is better to understand the low in the light of the high, than the high in the light of the low.”

While price gouging after a hurricane is illegal, and illegal interest is called usury; in some cases, arbitrage means getting on top of the opponent when the opportunity arises. As an example, arbitrage could be perceiving a tendency of a quarterback on third down and returning an interception for a touchdown. It’s the right thing to do; arbitrage works within the rule of law.

In non-economic terms:

The emotional needs of young, gifted kids are as unique as emotionally challenged kids, but the funding does not reflect it. It is reverse-arbitrage. Does no child left behind require that no child can get ahead?

I realize educators are presented with a wide range of children labeled as gifted: from quiet and emotionally sensitive to chatty and rambunctious; and these students can be very challenging to engage in the teaching routines of a normal school day. However, a 2008 Fordham Institute report found that, while low-achieving students have made gains, and are tracked and funded assiduously; advanced-learners (making up 6% of students) are "languishing," and that teachers must spend the majority of their time with struggling students even though they know that others in the classroom need attention as well. This anti-arbitrage educative scenario is risky for our future.

Is the US willing to lose innovative leaders and develop fewer breakthroughs because of the untapped potential of its gifted & talented young people?

During the Sputnik crisis of 1958, education programs were initiated to foster a new generation of engineers; the country appreciated the need for gifted students to be funded, supported, nurtured, and developed, so that for strategic reasons America was competitive in the space exploration race. We don’t see a shiny-orbed satellite racing across the night sky to remind us that we are falling behind. The reminders trudge off to elementary and middle schools every academic cycle, not reaching their GT potential for lack of attention, and funding; the opportunity to take the lead in the world, passes us daily.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Movie Review: LINCOLN

DreamWorks film "Lincoln" (2012)

(Houston, Texas)  Movies allow us time travel, expanding our horizons, opening us sometimes to depths of emotion we did not realize we carried. History’s power as storyteller derives from actual events; yet knowing the end of the story, the dramatic depiction still holds our attention. It happened to me watching the new movie “Lincoln.” I wasn't impatient for the end of the movie, and hardly noticed its extreme length. I rarely recommend the time and money this film requires of its viewers, but I do today.

The adept telling of history strengthens the foundation of our Republic, grounding it ever stronger in the truth; allowing viewers to probe their ordinary world with the tools of experience. Director Steven Spielberg accomplishes the impossible task of telling Lincoln’s story with aplomb, placing special emphasis on the passing of the 13^th Amendment by Congress in 1865. This central narrative showed how the abolition of slavery effected the drive toward peace in the Civil War.

Euclid’s simple scientific truth profoundly affected Lincoln’s thinking about human equality. Elemental to the geometry of Euclid was this statement, “things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other.” Abraham Lincoln likened this principle as truth that could be applied to the fight against slavery: he saw the “same thing” as God; therefore, as equals created in God’s image, African slaves were equal to white Americans, however difficult the consequence of this truth. This is the only scene I will discuss, and even though it is short, its power is immense: Lincoln steadfastly believed equality under law was worth defending, even through the shedding of blood.  

The acting ensemble, including dozens of politicians, generals, and White House personnel, gave the appearance of reality while not taking the spotlight from the main character. Spielberg’s use of light in profile shots formed a corona from the differentiated rays of the sun blasting around Lincoln’s body in many scenes. This bright aura reflects his uncommon magnanimity; another way of visually showing the saintly reverence Lincoln deserves. Most of what we've learned about history is wrong, but this movie gives a fair account. The South is not demonized, the Congress is shown for what it is (a hyper-lobbied mess), Lincoln struggled with a difficult family life as the war raged, and the force of personality often superseded his political and intellectual talent.

The pantheon of Spielberg classics receives another member into its prestigious Hall of Fame. This movie is a national treasure and should not be missed. (150 minutes, DreamWorks)

©Mark H. Pillsbury

A-1 series beginning w/ the letter-A: Appreciation

Appreciation

Appreciation is all about relationships: friends, family, organizations that I value. A friend no longer living here in town is my “pick you up in the middle-of-the-night friend,” the kind for which we all are grateful. Although we've shared each other’s likes/dislikes, burdens, joys, tragedies, humorous and sarcastic moments, for thousands of cell-phone minutes; I most appreciated his friendship when he picked me up late one night when my car broke down. Cognizant that this friendship is purely unmerited favor, I regard him with high respect, that’s what makes it special. 

Being “aware” gives us the sensibility to actually experience and live for today, not stuck on another day; appreciative of the present. Estimable affection can be temporal; indeed it also allows us to see the miraculous in the common. The hobbyist and the connoisseur both relish what they see and taste; settling softly on their palette with warm appreciation. They know it when they see it, recognition is passionate and instantaneous. I can hear a few notes of my favorite music and respond immediately with singing, and a glance at my children pictured as toddlers shines into my heart like bright rays of morning sun.

Awesome begins with an A, a word overused and trite; yet when we look at something with awe, appreciation rises. As the year begins, I am committed to show and experience appreciation. We crave it ourselves, if we make the effort to perform a nice deed on another’s behalf their acknowledgment makes it worth it; as long it is given freely and not from obligation. Have you noticed the difference between a sincere thank-you note and a canned one?

Hat by Zazzle.com

An antidote to the venom of narcissism, thankfulness has been proven to improve both mental and physical health; likewise, studying the cause of sincere customer satisfaction captivates business.

Appreciation: joy’s cousin spreads a smile to a passer-by, a call to a lonely, elderly relative, and returns a large tip to a jovial bartender. Worth taking time to stop and be appreciative for the blessings of life, we take a receptive posture; absorbing the pleasantry with satisfaction and happiness. Further, pursuing appreciation is subtle and important; as edifying as the experience is lovely. As I mature I am increasingly aware of the joy I experience over the littlest of things, or the largest of concepts. Give thanks, for this is the day the Lord gave us; life is not a dress-rehearsal.

Next time:  arbitrage

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Beginning with the letter-A: Awareness

Awareness

I’ve stopped at the same light for years, waiting 3-minutes for a left turn arrow. Today the driver window was down, beautiful spring smells filled the air, the clickety-clack of the old V-8 pistons mesmerized me. Even though I’d sat serenely at the same exact spot before; this time, I looked to my left to a scrawny oak tree and saw it for the first time just 6 feet away. Around the trunk was a small wooden sign the size of a 4x5 index card, affixed with a striped, taffeta ribbon and painted robin's egg blue. On the dainty sign was written one simple word in a winsome fresh pink cursive. It's the word that can change the world by melting away fear, filling us with courage and hope: LOVE.

Hiding in plain sight was what I needed to hear that day, for real; however, had I not been aware and open to this tiny signal, my life would have been totally different. Awareness means the ability to Stop, Look, and Listen to the world in which one lives. It pumps fresh air into relationships and protects us from a number of maladies, pratfalls, and dead-ends.

Recently, certain words caught my attention. They either shine like new or keep turning-up like a dirty penny. These words resonate to me, they pique my curiosity, and they made me want to incrementally write them down on a tiny Post-it® note on my desk. 

As the list grew, I saw a thread tying them together: they begin with the letter “A,” and so I was destined to blog about them; even though they all have enticingly different meanings and significance. Now, in a semi-regular series, words beginning with the A-B-Cs will be the topic for my posts. As long as I stay aware of the words as they speak to me. Thank you for reading along.

Next post: Appreciation

©Mark H. Pillsbury

The Second Obama Presidency

A window into Obama's second term actually happened just days before last fall’s general election when the President talked on the telephone with Des Moines Register [DMR] editors about their endorsement (October 25, 2012).

Obama didn't run on an overt second term agenda, and has not stressed details since the election; nevertheless, his main points in the interview were: 

• Continue growing “in-sourced” manufacturing jobs instead of losing them overseas
• In education he identified the need for improvement in STEM topics and more community college access
• The energy plan concentrated on alternative fuels, long-lasting batteries, and fuel efficient cars.
• Realistic immigration reform is now possible because the Republicans have scared all the Hispanics into the Democratic Party and finally there is enough political will to attempt this.
• Finally, he discussed deficit reduction through negotiating with the Republican House of Representatives in what he named the “Grand Bargain.” 

Editors brought him back to their number one issue which was economic growth. [Like the DMR editors, my perspective is that the other issues he discussed weren't common topics on the campaign trail; my concern therefore, on the precipice of his second term, is that they will distract from what needs to be done in the next few weeks].

During the interview, the President said corporate profits were at “record levels,” and big companies were “awash in cash.” [But why are corporations on the sidelines as far as spending for growth, and new hiring? Will the Obama administration consider the current oppressive regulatory environment or how businesses fear the upcoming Obama-care mandates?]

In October, what was said to be the “grand bargain,” which was $2.50 worth of budget cuts for every dollar in spending on programs, was essentially achieved during the fiscal cliff deal; however many of the Simpson-Bowles targets weren't met. [How serious is the President about either controlling spending, or negotiating with Congress? The immediate major hurdle for the his new administration: the fight over raising the debt ceiling].

The President says this fight is not about new spending; instead, raising the debt ceiling is necessary so the US Government can “pay our bills.” In his press conference today he did not sound like a man ready to negotiate. I ran across a well-written letter this weekend; if only the President read his mail:

©Mark H. Pillsbury