Like a 15-second jingle, I pretty much forgot everything that I ever learned about Bartolomeo Cristofori’s grand creation, the piano. My upright piano where I expressed every emotion that played through me at the time transitioned from my secret love to a forlorn and neglected, out of tune, collector of dust.
I just returned to Yosemite National Park after decades of absence. It is magnificent, if you ignore the hordes of people crawling the valley like ants, and the over 66 million dead conifers in the Sierra Nevada, with the grey and brown bulk seen along the roads leading into Yosemite National Park through Mariposa County. I lost my breath seeing the death of these trees.
To believe that there are not those persons who do not respect the planet on which we live, is a sure path to living like fools. To believe that some one person can make your life good again, is a sure path to living like a fool. To believe that there is just one path to follow, is a sure path that ends at the edge of a deep crevice or brick wall.
The near-full moon hovered above three massive outdoor screens. Thousands of people looked at the screens with anticipation. At strobe speed, each screen flashed drum skins, guitar frets, backlit Joshua trees and saguaros, and the faces of older men. Heart-pumping rhythm pounded through acres of speakers and shattered the desert air. Like LSD-fueled geysers, fireworks blasted millions of rainbow sparks into the dry, windless sky.
The next 40 days of the Christian season of Lent is a time when we sacrifice guilty pleasures like sweets, alcohol, television, […]
With the made up word Memortality, the book’s protagonist is a paraplegic teen, Minerva Rus, who has an unnatural ability to bring back the dead by simply remembering them. But she’s not the first with this unusual ability. Memortality is a romp through a web of everyday people with not-everyday paranormal talents.
We’ve apparently become a nation of fat drunks juggling bullets and razor blades in smoke-filled rooms.
Will history determine that 2016 was a year of balancing a scale or tipping it dangerously close to the fire?
And so it is with me and the rest of humanity.
Perhaps this is why the desert drew me in over and over this year. I know the desert well. I grew up in the desert — both in life and metaphorically. The seemingly endless light that heated the soil beneath my feet and cast mirages before me was both a gift and a trick. Sorting candor from myth consumed much of my time.
What are ways that we can give without membership, dues, meetings, committees, and landing on the mailing lists of the never ending mailers thick with dynamic photos of sad faced children, seniors citizens, dogs, and panda bears?