Burning Stars

Whether it hits you personally or affects you across miles and time, tragedy is always hard to process. It can steal your breath, take away all of your tears, and leave you feeling drained. Of course, we all handle it differently. My husband Jeremy broods on it in silence, mulling over any pain with deliberate and focused thought. I’ve only seen this laidback character cry once and that was over the loss of his beloved childhood dog.

I, on the other hand, am a crier. I wear my big ol’ heart right on my sleeve, and I also tend to dwell on the sadness until its all-consuming. It’s the curse of being a sensitive, empathetic soul. I once spent fifteen minutes crying over a dead goose I’d never even met, and I’ve spent countless hours crying over sad stories about animals and people on television, in movies and books, and even on the internet.

All the crying and hyper-sensitivity probably gets on Jeremy’s nerves, but in the end, neither of us have mastered the correct way to grieve or deal with tragedy…mainly because there is no correct way.

This subject came up over the weekend.

Despite it being Sunday and one of the few days that we can sleep in, I rose early last Sunday. We had plans to meet my parents for breakfast, but the truth was that I just woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep. I went about my morning ritual as normal. Brush teeth, shower, then I went in the living room and checked my phone.

The first news I saw was pretty unbelievable, and at this point, I’m not quite sure I was awake.

Friends on Facebook were lamenting the death of Cory Monteith, my favorite actor on the television series “Glee.” Status updates like, “I can’t believe Cory Monteith is dead,” caused me to wake up faster than I had ever intended.

I loped back to the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and shook Jeremy from his sleep. “Cory Monteith is dead,” I said, watching his glazed over eyes slowly focus on me. “He’s dead!” And then with all the drama of a teenage girl who had just been broken up with, I sobbed.

Looking back on that moment, I feel rather silly. I didn’t know Cory. I can’t even pretend that there was the slightest chance that I would ever meet him. He wasn’t family; he wasn’t a friend. Later in the morning, while moping around the house in a grief-induced fog, I asked Jeremy why the death of a person I didn’t know had affected me so.

His answer was profoundly simple and shed a light on my grief, as well as the grief of millions of others when faced with the tragic death of a celebrity.

He said, “He was part of something you valued; plus, it’s always sad when someone dies.”

When Princess Diana died, I remember crying as I watched her funeral on television. Just the other night, while watching a documentary about Nancy Reagan, I teared up when they showed the footage from Ronald Reagan’s funeral. I didn’t know Princess Di. I didn’t know Ronald Reagan. But both were a part of my childhood, a part of something that with their deaths we would never get back.

Cory Monteith was a part of “Glee.” Faithfully, through good episodes and bad, I have watched “Glee” since it first aired in 2009. I have laughed at, cried with, and cheered for the character of Finn Hudson, portrayed by Cory Monteith. I have sang along with him on my iPod and read about him on Twitter. I didn’t know him, and now I never will. He’s another star that burned out way too soon, a tragedy that will stick with this fangirl for quite some time. 

Disconnect

Appropriately, the lead singer led the way. Surrounded by security and eager fans, he weaved through the stadium, guiding his rag-tag band mates to the center of the floor. Lighting guys struggled to readjust spotlights for the impromptu crowd session, and the entire stadium came alive with a new kind of excitement and energy. Hundreds of fans rushed to pull out cell phones, desperate to catch a shot of the band up close.

Jeremy and I watched from our seats, too far away to really see the band well but close enough to feel the energy. After a few moments of getting set up, the first strains of an acoustic guitar quieted the crowd. The piano and cello joined in, building up tempo, and then suddenly, they all stopped.

“I’m gonna ask that you put away your cell phones.” The lead singer’s surprising request had the crowd breaking into giggles. He glanced around the auditorium and nodded. “No, seriously, just for this one song. Put away your phones and be present with us in this moment.”

Most of us did as he asked and that song turned out to be one of the best of the night. We were there with him in that moment, no picture-taking, no texting, no distractions. We were engaged.

Since that night a couple of weeks ago, I’ve thought about the lead singer’s words, about the beauty and intimacy of that moment, about the meaning of disconnecting from technology and connecting with the world around you.

These days so much of society is dictated by technology. So much of our lives are spent staring at television screens, computer screens, tablet screens, phone screens. If we were to add it all up, the minutes, hours, the days and weeks would shock us I’m sure. When I was trying to track my own phone usage the other day, I could barely keep up with the number of times I looked down at that tiny black box.

Jeremy and I used to watch other couple’s in restaurants, sitting right across the table from each other and staring down at their phones. We’d laugh that if we ever became that obsessed with our phones that we would need to just throw them away. Well, my friends, that day has come. Over the weekend, I had to fight the urge to check my phone during a lunch date with my husband and that realization was sickening.

I thought back to the concert a couple of weeks ago, to those few moments when I was completely engaged with the world around me, and I felt ashamed.

We held out for the longest time in getting smart phones; neither of us liked talking on the phone much. We didn’t care for texting, and we were fine with surfing the internet from the anchor of our laptop or desktop computer. But finally, when the rest of the world seemed to have left us behind, we buckled and purchased our first smart phones.

We’ve only had them since January, but in those six months, our lives and habits have changed drastically. Now, there’s never a moment of just sitting and waiting, just thinking and enjoying the world. Now, those moments are filled with facebooking and email-checking, with game-playing and googling. In some ways, the information and knowledge at our fingertips is wonderful; in some ways, I even feel like I’ve started learning more from the world around me because of this new reference tool that I carry around in my pocket.

But in much more distinct and impactful ways, I feel and sense a loss. A loss of time, of random thought and imagination, of simply being.

Over the last few days, I’ve made an effort to take that songwriter’s words to heart. I’ve made an effort to engage and exist in a moment without the aid of technology or a device. I’ve remembered what so many of us seem to have forgotten, that living doesn’t require a plug or charger or a wifi signal; it only requires us, our hearts and minds connected, engaged, and present. 

Boston Strong

A city has a pulse, a soul. It can be heard in the symphony of sounds that play out on its streets; it can be felt in its old buildings and in its rich culture; and it can be seen in the unique character of its people. This pulse continues in good times and in bad. It beats through happiness and strife. It endures, and in a nation as strong and proud as the United States, the pulse from some cities is so loud and distinct that their identities are often known and treasured around the world.

Cities, like New York and San Francisco, like New Orleans and Atlanta, like Nashville and Seattle and many, many more, exist as both independent entities and brilliant accompaniments to their nation. They shine with rare qualities that make them stand out from the crowd, that make them representatives of our great nation.

Boston is one of those cities. It’s always stood out, and following the events of April 15, 2013, it will stand out now more than ever.

On the third Monday of every April, Massachusetts and Maine observe Patriots’ Day, a civic holiday that commemorates the anniversary of the Battles of Concord and Lexington, the first two battles of the American Revolutionary War. Schools and businesses are closed. Festivities ensue.

Boston celebrates this day of patriotism and pride with the running of the Boston Marathon, the world’s oldest annual marathon. This year’s marathon, however, was clouded by the actions of two terrorists. Just before 3:00pm, hours after the race had begun, twin explosions rocked the finish line of the marathon, sending spectators and runners alike into a state chaos and panic.

Extraordinarily, even before what had happened was completely clear, some people were charging towards the scenes of the explosions. Video of the event reveals some of the heroes of that day, selflessly running towards danger to save anyone they could.

That was the first indication of how Boston would react to the horror and terror of the attack. Instead of folding under, instead of running away in fear, the city and its people would hold their heads high in the days following the bombings. They would prove to exemplify their rallying cry of “Boston Strong.”

While the details of the attack were still being revealed and the suspects were still at large, the city reacted in the only way it knew how: with strength and pride. Unsure of what the days after the attack would bring, Bostonians pulled together as if to say, “You picked the wrong city to mess with.” During the Bruins game on the Wednesday night following the marathon, their mettle was further proven as the entire crowd joined in with the national anthem, all but drowning out the singer there to perform.

Mirroring the moment at the Bruins game, a chorus of voices calling for love and justice has risen to all but drown out the evil deeds of two men, who were identified and subdued in record time, a truly amazing feat performed by both federal and Massachusetts law enforcement. These voices represent a city and a nation that values freedom and justice.

Yes, Boston has a pulse, and today, that pulse is beating stronger than ever, and while it mourns the loss of three bright young lives, it proves that evil actions will not define it, that dark clouds won’t hang over its buildings and trees and streets paved with heart, strength, and bravery. It has been and will forever be Boston Strong.

Number 7

The Famous Slide

“Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” I can still remember Skip Carey yelling those sweet words. I had been sprawled out on our living room floor, eyes glued to the television, tomahawk chopping the night away. I was nine-years old and had a pretty serious passion for baseball. As Skip yelled, I danced across the room, screaming and shouting for my Atlanta Braves.

Sid Bream sliding into home base on that fateful night in 1992 is one of those moments that just sticks with you.  Great baseball can deliver those moments, and there’s a new baseball team in my life now that I expect will deliver some awesome ones.

My nearly four-year old nephew Garrett started playing t-ball this year. He plays for a less famous Braves team and is the number 7. Naturally, I’m pretty excited that he wears Mickey Mantle’s number, and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s going to be the next Chipper Jones or perhaps Greg Maddox, ‘cause y’alll this boy can throw!

He had his first game over the weekend. Number 7, with a slightly too big uniform and face perpetually smudged with dirt or chocolate, covered first and third and hit a couple of line drives. He ran the bases like a pro and slid into home with a finesse that would make even Sid Bream jealous. Sliding into home and running the bases are his favorite moves, but his real talent lies in his hitting and throwing.

Naturally, I’m partial, but I’ve never seen a three-year old with a better arm than Garrett. I see baseball scholarships and major league pennants in his future. Of course, I won’t push; he’s got his entire future ahead of him, so if he decides to give up baseball and play the guitar instead, he’ll have his Aunt Katie’s undying support. But I do see a little natural talent in the way he tosses that ball.

Sunday afternoon was spent with a family game of baseball in the backyard. Mama and Daddy (Nana B and Papa to Garrett) set up a makeshift baseball diamond, complete with a chair as first base and terracotta planters as second and third. A busted up stick from an oak tree served as home plate.

Papa pitched, and Garrett was first up to bat. He connected on the first pitch, and the crowd went wild. He made it all the way to third, and the tone of the game was set.

We soon learned that baseball according to Garrett’s rules was a little different. The little smarty pants took full advantage of the chair base, sitting down every time he made it to first, and he gave a whole new meaning to the word switch hitter. If ever he swung and missed a pitch, he’d turn around and face the catcher, my husband Jeremy, and say “Now, you throw!” And the catcher would become the pitcher.

Despite some initial confusion over the chair base and switch hitting, it was easily the best baseball game I’ve ever played in or watched. I see big things in Number 7’s future. 

Piano

                                          Source: nadjaseale.com via Sarah on Pinterest

The piano sits silent in MawMaw’s dining room. It collects dust and knick knacks and is all but forgotten by everyone who visits. 

As a long-legged, scabbed-knee little girl, I was fascinated by that piano, spent countless hours sitting on its bench, exploring its secrets. I would caress the slightly yellowed keys, press up and down on the squeaky pedals with feet that just barely reached. Sometimes, MawMaw would join me on the bench, and together we’d play chopsticks until the whole household would groan in collective annoyance. 

MawMaw can play by ear. She has no need for music; she can just magically find the notes on the yellowed keys, some inherent skill for rhythm and tune that still escapes me to this day. Her skill fascinated me as a child. To be able to sit down at that lovely instrument and just play was something I yearned for, and MawMaw yearned for one of her grandchildren to follow in her footsteps and love the piano as she did. 

“She has the long, graceful fingers of a piano player,” I remember her telling Mama and Daddy, a hopeful tone in her voice. Looking down at my stubby, fat fingers now, I wonder how they might have ever appeared long and graceful, but in Mawmaw’s eyes, they were.

Because of her and my keen interest her piano, Mama and Daddy decided to pay for piano lessons for me. Luckily, my Aunt Dera taught lessons. Two nights a week, I went to my aunt and uncle’s house in Tallapoosa to receive the lessons and put my piano-playing fingers to work.

Their glossy black piano was much different from the oak upright that MawMaw played. Its keys were whiter than white and gleamed as my fingers danced across them. Dera patiently sat beside me on the bench and introduced to me the unfamiliar language of music.

Notes and scales and music books cluttered the desk stand above the keyboard, as well as my mind. Happily, and it took plenty of long, frustrating hours of practice, I finally learned a couple of songs. I could pound out a decent “Jingle Bells” and “Jesus Loves Me,” but my specialty by far was the celebratory notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

When I sat down at MawMaw's piano last weekend after gorging myself on her yummy roast and potatoes, my fingers found the notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." It took a couple of tries and a few missed keys, but the song came back to me, hesitantly at first and then stronger. The piano seemed to remember me.

Unbidden, tears filled my eyes as I reacquainted myself with this old friend from childhood, its keys and pedals as familiar to me as any doll or toy that I ever played with. The knob was still missing from the key cover where I had twisted and turned it a million times in play. The keys were still yellowed and older than when I last touched them, but as beautiful as any instrument I had ever seen.

After my impromptu reunion, MawMaw sat down with us and reminisced of times when PawPaw had asked her to play for him. She would oblige and play for a long while; when she’d return to him in the living room, he’d be propped up in his recliner, sound asleep. We laughed, as she told us how she’d ask him if he was listening, and he would smile and say he heard every note, that he was just resting his eyes.

I can almost hear him say it, eyes closed, big grin on his face. The piano was a gift to her from him, an outward sign of their shared love. I guess that's probably why I love it so, because when I look at it, I see PawPaw's heart, and when I play it, I hear his heart. 

It's true that the piano may sit silent in MawMaw’s dining room now, but in this girl's heart, the memories attached to it will play on forever.