What It's All About. Yeah.

You're not going to believe this, but that election we just finished?  That ain't what it's all about, folks.  In fact it wasn't even a little bit important to some people in this world.

While the rest of us have been posting vitriol on Facebook and wishing a pox on our enemies, bemoaning the overkill of campaign ads and doorknockers, some people have been suffering.  Suffering loss of home and life, loss of dignity and the means to support themselves, sitting at the bedsides of loved ones and saying the ultimate goodbye.  Asking what the heck happened and what did they do to deserve it. And maybe worst of all, there are people who have despaired of finding hope and the strength to face it all.  I know a few of them myself, and the past few months have been pure hell for those people.  Real hell, not just campaign hell.

To them, I send my love and support and share this beautiful song by Whitney Houston. Listen if you can take the time; read the lyrics too.  Then go let somebody know you've been thinking about them. Write a note, email, or make a phone call.  Go visit your parent in the nursing home.  Take a meal to a friend who hasn't been feeling well.  Look the person talking to you in the eye and listen. Hug your husband or your kids or your cat. Write a check to a charity or take some food to the Food Bank. Send your compassion out in as many ways as you can think of.  Because maudlin as it may seem, that's what it's all about.

The people to whom these lyrics speak need you. Badly.

As I lay me down

Heaven hear me now

I'm lost without a cause

After giving it my all
Winter storms have come

And darkened my sun

After all that I've been through

Who on earth can I turn to?
I look to you  I look to you  After all my strength is gone  In you I can be strong
I look to you  I look to you  And when melodies are gone  In you I hear a song, I look to you

About to lose my breath

There's no more fighting left

Sinking to rise no more

Searching for that open door
And every road that I've taken

Led to my regret

And I don't know if I'm gonna make it

Nothing to do but lift my head
I look to you  I look to you  And when all my strength is gone  In you I can be strong
I look to you  I look to you  And when melodies are gone  In you I hear a song, I look to you

My levees have broken, my walls have come

Crumbling down on me

The rain is falling, defeat is calling

I need you to set me free
Take me far away from the battle

I need you, shine on me
I look to you  I look to you  After all my strength has gone  In you I can be strong
I look to you  I look to you  And when melodies are gone  In you I hear a song, I look to you
I look to you  I look to you

(Song by Whitney Houston)

Reuniting

"As a younger woman, I didn't hesitate to bare my body. As an older woman, I just as freely bare my soul." -- Anonymous

My fourtieth high school reunion is this year, and many of us are starting to hook up via Facebook and email lists. The excitement about getting together is building and it seems more fervent this time around.

I've been corresponding with some of my old friends lately. I met a few girlfriends in Charleston a couple of weeks ago, and I've exchanged emails with one of the first guys I ever kissed. I'm finding that we have no trouble telling the most intimate and soul-baring details of our lives now that we're in our fifties. Right away we find ourselves discussing our drug and alcohol abuse, our secret childhood pain. And in these settings, I haven't felt any of the old insecurities I felt about being honest with myself and friends when I was in junior high and high school.

I've recognized a pattern in my life from these conversations, though, a habit of doing things that made me afraid. This is how I feel about the exhibit (I've decided to call it that, because it's not an opening in the true sense of the word). I'm afraid I'm in over my head. I'm afraid of what people will think of my photographs. I'm afraid no one will show up; I'm afraid that a lot of people will show up.

Is there anyone alive who is healthily immune to the opinions of others? Is this even possible? And if we have to live with this fear of judgment, how do we do it in a way that contributes to our growth and not our aversion to taking on new challenges?

Each little successful undertaking of something frightening gives me courage to try something else. But some days, I wonder if the need to feel fear motiviates me more than the need to feel challenged.