The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar, by This American Life

The best stories are the one's that are about something so much more than the actual story.

This is one of those stories, and it's one of my favorites. Ever.

In 1912 a four-year-old boy named Bobby Dunbar went missing in a swamp in Louisiana. Eight months later, he was found in the hands of a wandering handyman in Mississippi. In 2004, Bobby Dunbar's granddaughter discovered a secret beneath the legend of her grandfather's kidnapping, a secret whose revelation would divide her own family, bring redemption to another, and become the answer to a third family's century-old prayer (via).

You can listen to it here and read the transcript here.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Podcasts

My grandfather, and the tools he left behind

Press play before reading.

"Was your grandpa good at making things?" Judah asks.

"Extremely," I say, stopping to look at a picture of my grandpa, dad, and me. It used to be in my grandparent's little dining nook. Now, it sits on my workbench, amid screws and tape measures and other tools my grandfather gave me. 

Tools I've just recently gotten back because they've been in storage for the past five years. 

"What's wrong?" Judah asks.

"Nothing" I say, "I'm okay."

"But you're crying," he says.

"I just miss 'em is all," and Judah wraps his arms around my neck.

“Thanks,” I say, patting his back, “I’m okay.” Then, we get to work, measuring and cutting and creating. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we talk, but most of the time we just work, side by side in the sawdust and under the dangling yellow lights. Working with my grandfather's tools.

Then, somewhere in the night, the song Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison comes on and I stop to text my dad because it's his favorite song, and whenever I hear it, no matter where I am, I think of him and me working and singing and laughing. A lot. Because if there's one thing my dad and my grandfather have in common its that they love to work hard and laugh even harder.

I look at the photo again and can almost feel my grandfather's arms around my shoulder and I think of my dad. I can't even imagine how he must feel, how much he must miss his dad, and how hard it must have been when his father's tools were stolen from his garage in the middle of the night. 

But then Judah asks if I could cut some wood for him, if I could hold this piece while he screws his plane together, and if I could tell him a few stories of Grandpa, since he doesn't really remember him anymore. 

"Sure," I say, and I tell him of how fishing with Grandpa on Lake Michigan was my favorite, especially when we didn't catch any fish, because he could tell the greatest stories and we'd just be there together, sometimes in silence but always together. I tell him about the time we went on a trip to Canada and Grandpa could't keep any minos in his hand because they kept escaping through the hole where his finger was cut off. I tell of how he drove down from Michigan just to watch me play a Friday Night game and how much it meant to me, because he'd never seen me play before. Then, I tell him about my grandfather's laugh, how he would squint one eye and sort of cackle out the greatest of all laughs. The kind that, even if the joke isn't funny, you laugh anyway.

Judah listens, asks a few clarifying questions, then reaches over and grabs my grandfather's tape measure. And he does so without thinking, because he doesn't know my grandfather used that same tape measure to build decks for people in his community, that my grandfather made furniture for each of his grandkids, even when he was months away from never picking up another tool again. That my grandfather was a master craftsman. 

But I do. I also know that he was a man of intense and extreme character, that he loved and supported his kids beyond measure, and that, when he died, his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids flew and drove from all over the country to be there - no matter the cost.

Because he was our grandpa. 

And our grandpa was great at making things. The tools just happened to be there.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

John Williams conducting the opening fanfare for The Last Jedi

John Williams! from rcjohnso on Vimeo.

Here's John Williams, conducting one of the most iconic musical pieces in movie making history - the opening fanfare for Star Wars: The Last Jedi. 

Yet, when it's all over, no one seems to notice.

Williams flips the pages and several people cough. One guy scratches his neck and nose, unaware of what just happened. That with just a few cords, goosebumps raised on the arms of children everywhere, that nostalgic memories were instantly recalled and created, and that millions of people, all over the world, were suddenly transported to a galaxy far, far away.

And that's pretty awesome. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Fanfare for the Common Man  :  Music  :  Star Wars

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!

Ludovico Einaudi : Elegy for the Arctic

On the Arctic Ocean, with a grand piano floating on a platform and against the backdrop of the Wahlenbergbreen glacier (in Svalbard, Norway), Einaudi plays an original piece composed in the hope of protecting the Arctic (via).

I just love the scene, near the minute-thirty mark, when the glacier seems to respond by casting itself into the ocean, like it's trying to reach him. Like it's trying to reach us.

Is anybody listening?

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiring Art  :  Classical Music

Ugly History : The 1937 Haitian Massacre

The memory of the Haitian Massacre remains a chilling reminder of how power-hungry leaders can manipulate people into turning against their life-long neighbors.

Seems like outsiders played a crucial and terrifyingly selfish role in establishing such a "shit hole" country. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  History  

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote

"The car leaped forward and sped on. Dick cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "You're a Lucky Bastard!" Then he laughed and hoisted the suitcase to his shoulder" because "another man in another car would come along." 

"Perry produced his harmonica and played the opening bars of what had come to be their 'marching music'; the song was one of Perry's favorites . . ." (pg 155).

Perry and Dick intended to kill whoever stopped to pick them up, drop their body in the vast Mojave Desert, and drive off with his (or her) car. But until then, they sang:

A chilling read. 

Throughout the work, a question kept coming to mind, "What am I reading this?" and "Why would anyone write this?" The answer, although unsettling, could not be ignored. Because this too is humanity. 

Seemingly random and deplorable killings are commonplace today, yet I wonder how many of those who have committed such atrocities - as well as those who have survived them - would be attracted to the thoughts and words of Truman Capote. 

A Thesis for Death:

"I'm scared Myrt."

"Of what? When your time comes, it comes. And tears won't save you . . . If there's somebody loose around here that wants to cut my throat, I wish them luck. What difference does it make? It's all the same in eternity. Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity. So blow your nose" (pg 69).

A Purpose for Cruelty:

"The glory of having everybody at his mercy, that's what excited (Dick)" (pg 239). 

A Lesson on Life:

"You are a human being with a free will. Which puts you above the animal level. But if you live your life without feeling and compassion for your fellow-man - you are an animal - "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" & happiness & peace of mind is not attained by living thus (pg 142). 

                   Top Picture Hickock, Richard Eugene

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the Lord", as well as the blood of an innocent family. And after Hickock's death, someone else had seen them too. Right after Hickock's death, his eyes were cut out and given to somebody else who needed them. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Reading Log 2017  :  Reading Log 2018

Young@Heart : A documentary

YOUNG@HEART chronicles seven weeks in the lives of the members of the chorus as they prepare for a one-night-only concert in their hometown of Northampton, Massachusetts. The group is made up of two dozen spirited seniors — former schoolteachers, executives, doctors, and food service workers — who specialize in reinterpreting rock, punk, and R&B classics from a unique perspective. What ultimately emerges in the film is a funny and unexpectedly moving testament to friendship, creative inspiration, and expectations defied (via).

And it's one of my favorite documentaries. 

Not because its highly entertaining or expounds upon some new or fascinating idea, but because its devoid of it. 

It's simple, yet extremely personal and human, and it just about brings down the house. Like this scene with Fred Knittle who is supposed to be singing this as a duet, but when his partner falls ill, he has to push through and perform it alone. 

He nails it.

Or here, as they perform live at Hampshire County Jail.

Damn.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiring films about Humans  :  Inspiring Art  :  Documentaries 

How to hide a yawn

How To Hide a Yawn from Daniel Koren on Vimeo.

"Everybody needs to know this." And it's true, because we've all experience this, intimately. On both sides. 

I'm definitely a mouth closed, jaw clenched, nostril flaring yawner, but I'm fully considering the, "clean your face with your shirt" option. Because it's golden. Clearly.

Which are you?

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Short films

Pow Surf to classical music

Pow Surf 101 from Kurtis Jackson on Vimeo.

Mixing the arts is truly beautiful, especially the more drastic they are in their differences. I tried doing it myself Sigur Ross and bouldering, but I think this is better. Mainly because they use Clair de Lune, which is clearly better.

Brilliant.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiring Art  :  Rock Climbing  :  Classical Music

"I think that's love."

     Photo by @svenbergerfotografie

“When I believe something that’s not true and I’m afraid, that fear is still real, whether what I’m afraid of is real or not. That fear is. And so I need to respect as a person the fear that they have even though I disagree with what they’re thinking that’s causing it." - Jeff Kelley

From the moment I saw the picture above I haven't stopped thinking about it, and for several reasons. One, it's a great photo. Two, it scares the hell out of me. And three, it captures most acutely the words of Jeannette Armstrong, "To see things from a different perspective is one of the most difficult things we have to do."

"We have to do." I love that. Not only because it's right and good and true, but because, at times, it seems damn near impossible. 

I'm so used to seeing myself standing on top the world, like a little conquerer, and singing along with Bob Dylan, "don't think twice, it's alright," because I've never know it to be any different.

I've never felt my feet leave the ground without returning, never considered that when I jump or swing or cartwheel in the soft green grass that I won't stay right where I am, on Earth. So I've never considered how terrifying my life on this earth actually is.

Until the photograph was turned upside down.

On the Podcast Invisibilia, a guest Will Cox say that the "unfortunate thing about human learning," is that "human brains are really good at learning things, and not so good at unlearning them."

And its because, Alex Spiegel explains, "of the way that our minds work. It is just much easier for a stereotype {or believed truth} to perpetuate itself than to be overturned. Because to change a concept, you need to get extremely consistent feedback that the concept is incorrect."

But often times, because of our busy lives or limited communities, we don't get any feedback at all. Leaving our truths unchallenged, and unchanged.

In our politics.

In our religions.

And in our experiences. 

Until the photograph is flipped a bear's life is challenged. 

After committing thirty years to the idea that black bears could be trusted, and after feeling like he proved this point over and over again, Jeff Kelley chose to see things from another's perspective and adjusted, for the sake of those who apposed him. So he could help them. Because in Eagle's Nest Township, a small community in Northeast Minnesota, a battle over the stay and safety of Solo, his beloved black bear and her cubs, was brewing.

Convinced that "they were seeing reality clearly, and that the other side was just projecting a false narrative," neither side was willing to concede. Because Jeff could lay down with his head Solo's, back while she was feeding, and be perfectly fine because Solo wasn’t dangerous, and every member of the Eagles Nest community knew this.

But others, visitors from out of town who stayed only for weeks at a time, were not so sure - they were scared, and they didn’t want Solo around. They saw Solo and her friendly cubs as “a public safety risk” and pushed for them to be moved.

"What happens when people cant agree on reality?" Speigel asks, "when everyone just digs in, and insists on their version of the world?"

Communities break down, relationships suffer, and an innocent bear dies. 

On the day authorities came to relocate Solo and her two cubs, citizens of Eagles Nest tried to rouse her from her winter hibernation and run her off, so she wouldn't be captured. Instead, she and her cubs climbed a tree. They were shot, placed on trucks, and brought to Northern Michigan. The cubs woke up; Solo didn't. 

The people of Eagles Nest started pointing fingers.

"Intolerance," and "fear, lead to this bear being killed," they argued, and those kind of people don't "fit with this community" they said.

All except for Alex. Because, as he explained, 

When I believe something that’s not true and I’m afraid, that fear is still real whether what I’m afraid of is real or not, that fear is. And so I need to respect, as a person, the fear that they have even though I disagree with what {they think is} causing it.

And so, out of respect for them, I adjust what I’m doing so that I can at least help them not be so afraid.

I think that’s love.

To see things from another's perspective can be one of the hardest things we are asked to do. It can also be as easy as flipping a photograph. The difficulty is doing something about it.

We don't all have to agree on reality. In fact, some would argue that it's best if we don't. But we can all agree that life and reality can often be terrifying, like upside down photographs, or monsters beneath the bed.

So, out of respect for the other person, let us help each other to not be so afraid; let us turn on the light!

Even if it's the hardest thing to do. 

Because that's love. 

And love keeps the monsters away.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration from Podcasts :  On Living 

Because they call me Dad : A Fireside Sunday

     Photo by @storyanthology

I could have taken a nap. I could have read a few more pages of In Cold Blood or got busy with any of the other millions of things I can get busy doing. I could have spent a large chunk of the day writing. But I didn't. Because my wife thought we should make a fire.

And as often happens, she was right. 

Snow fell from the trees and landed in our laps and dinner and our kids laughed those long and deep laughs that warm the soul. 

We sat together as a family.

Elias spit raspberries. 

I can't help but constantly feel guilty for not writing more often, for not "pursuing the craft" because I know full well, if this is ever going to happen, it won't just fall in my lap (I already said enough about that).

But then we have a day like today and I'm reminded there isn't room. Nor do I want any. Because Eden "loves the mornings" and Zion asks if she can cuddle and help make breakfast. And I get to be there. 

Because they call me Dad.

And because my wife asked me to build a fire.

So we did.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond

Been wanting to watch this for a while. It didn't disappoint.

You may not agree with Jim Carrey on everything he says - or maybe nothing, I know I didn't. But his brilliance is unmatched. 

Good God he and this was good.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Movies

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!

Nobody Wants to Read your Sh*t, by Steven Pressfield

Like last 2017, this year is dedicated to writing (and one of these years, hopefully, something will actually come of it). I'd heard this book mentioned several times by artists of various sorts so I thought it as good a place as any to help start off the year. 

It wasn't amazing, but it didn't disappoint - I'd give it a solid B, perhaps a B+. 

Here are some of highlights:

It isn’t that people are mean or cruel. They’re just busy . . . so, streamline your message. Focus it and pare it down to its simplest, clearest, easiest-to-understand form . . . because The reader denotes his time and attention, which are supremely valuable commodities. In return, you the writer must give him something worthy of his gift to you (pg 5).

If there was nothing else in the book, this is a hook I can hang my hat on: people are busy - or, as Derrick Jenson says, they could be having sex, so my writing better be worth their time. It better be better than having sex. 

“Let my countrymen discover, by their suffering without me fighting as their champion, how by far the greatest of them I am” (pg 23) – quoting Agamemnon, the Anti-hero.

The solution is embedded in the problem. If your job is to find the solution, the first step is to define the problem (pg 32).

Every piece of work operates from a thesis statement: Walter White in Breaking Bad says, “Change. Chemistry is the study of change. Elements combine and change into compounds. That’s all of life, right? Solution, dissolution. Growth. Decay. Transformation. It’s fascinating really.” This is Vince Gilligan’s statement of the theme (pg 35).

The two quotes above are gold and can/should be applied to anything, even teaching. A classroom, a novel, a movie, a TV show, even raising children or running a church should be guided be a central, clearly defined and easily applied, thesis statement. 

Because when life gets hard, when the ship rocks, or when no one knows what to do, it is the guiding and unfaltering force. So it better be a good one.

A real writer (or artist or entrepreneur) has something to give. She has lived enough and suffered enough and thought deeply enough about her experience to be able to process it into something that is of value to others, even if only as entertainment.

It's okay to seek success, as long as the purpose is greater than ourselves; if it is to serve the greater community. It's all about our motives. 

How to Create a {Classroom}: ask the questions (modified):

1.     What’s the theme?

2.     What’s the climax?

3.     Who’s the hero?

4.     The Villain?

5.     What are the stakes?

6.     What’s the purpose?

The American dream – you can be anything you want to be if you’re willing to work for it . . . and the American nightmare – what if we try and fail? (pg 90).

Your job as a writer is to give your hero the deepest, darkest, most hellacious All is Lost Moment possible – and then find a way out for her (pg 104) because The All is Lost Moment is followed almost immediately by a breakthrough insight or epiphany, an awakening for the hero, an “Aha!” moment (pg 105).

Write your nonfiction book as if it were a novel . . . give it an Act One, an Act Two, and Act Three. Make it cohere around a theme (pg 123).

The hardest and maybe the best way to establish authority is through the quality and integrity of the voice itself (pg 165).

The War of Art Structure:

- Hook – “resistance,” the invisible negative force of self-sabotage that all writers (and creative people in all fields) face.

- Build – mounts to a high point at which the problem has been defined and the answer spelled out. Leading to the question, “What does it all mean?”

- Payoff – they paid off the Hook and the Build by reinforcing the reader’s own rising self-confidence that she not only identified the enemy and now knew hot to fight it, but had been turned on to the unseen, unbidden, but powerfully fortifying forces that would ineluctably come to her aid once she committed to her calling and took up the challenge (pg 169,170).

There is an evil force that is constantly defeating us as artists and bringing to naught all of our dreams. Let’s name that force, accept it as our enemy, and figure out how to overcome it.

Here’s how you know {you’ve got something worth pursuing} – you’re scared to death of it (pg 186).

Resources:

-       The Story Grid, by Shawn Coyne

-       The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield

-       The Creative Habit, by Twyla Tharp

-       Quiet, by Susan Cain

-       Think and Grow Rich, by Napoleon Hill

Perhaps the greatest takeaway was the idea that even a nonfiction book (or classroom) should be structured and designed just like a fiction novel - central theme, hero and villain, three part structure. I love that. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :   NY Times Best Books of 2017  :   Reading Log 2017  :  Reading Log 2018

On top, but alone : a sabbatical from writing

As 2016 drew to a close, like many people around the world, I planned for new beginnings, new hopes, and set a strong resolution: to write a blog every single day. I knew it was low hanging fruit and that it wouldn't bestow upon me the ever elusive title of "author," but I was okay with that, because it would ensure that I intentionally wrote a polished piece of work every single day. Up to that point, writing in my journal was erratic, sloppy, and unchallenged - it was a place I could live and write without consequence for my grammatical errors or faulty ideas.  It was a place of little growth.

So, for almost the entire year, I published something daily. Sometimes I struck gold, other times a septic line, but always I learned and grew - even if only slightly. Because people now had access to my thoughts.

Friends revealed my terrible grammar.

My wife refined my insensitive rants.

Readers encouraged my process, thoughts, and style. They commented, liked, and shared my writings which inspired me to stay up and write, well beyond my bedtime, because I had to write, I had to publish, and I had to maintain the number of views I was becoming accustomed to. 

Writing, suddenly, was no longer about writing. It was about getting Mother Mary up the mountain. And I couldn't figure out how to stop.

About halfway through the year, after writing about a variety of topics, posting videos, songs, movie trailers, and whatever else caught my interest, Mother Mary was still far from her summit, and I could feel my strength, my desire, and my purpose, slipping. When school started and life began to fill up, she lingered on the cliff. 

So I sent two dear friends an email entitled, "A Crisis of Sorts."

Here's an excerpt from that email:

For the past several weeks I've been working hard at my blog (god that sounds stupid). I've stayed up late, sacrificed lunches, and spent many many hours thinking on what to write, how to write, and to whom I might be writing for. And whenever I publish something I think, "Yes. That's good. I like that." But whenever I go back and reread various works and thoughts, I think, "NO! That's shitty. I hate that," and I get fully discouraged and lose hope {of} ever doing anything with writing because what is my blog going to do? How is this getting me anywhere closer to being a writer? Where is this going to get me?

I've started writing a bit more on personal matters, believing it might be encouraging to others because we're all tired of the surface bullshit we post on Facebook and Instagram and whatever. Some of the best and well-known writers and thinkers I've come to love are those who write and think honestly, and I want to emulate them. But as I work on a second piece about the struggles of a broken family, I keep questioning myself, "What's the point?" Outside of myself, who truly cares about this?" I know writers are supposed to "write for themselves," and I get that, I do. But it's also bullshit. We, as humans, as writers or artists or whatever we call ourselves, want to inspire, to help, and, as selfish as it sounds, be validated in what we do and the time we spend doing it. And this is EXACTLY where I'm struggling.

What am I doing wrong? Am I completely deluded in thinking that what I'm doing, the time I'm spending, and the way I'm writing is doing anything other than wasting time? 

Their responses, as I knew they would be, were golden. 

One writes, "Has the blog become too consuming? Does it interfere with other priorities? Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog? . . . Consider your motivations for writing the blog . . . maybe taking a “sabbatical” from the blog would be the healthiest option."

The other, "Have you heard the phrase, "Kill your darlings"? . . . I'm not saying your blog needs to be scrapped completely. I think if it's a momentary stumbling block that will be fine in the long run, keep going. But if it's a race of hurdles where you just trip over hurdle after hurdle, maybe it does?"

In short, why am I trying to place Mother Mary on top of a treacherous mountain? 

Because it's the good and right and noble choice? Because it serves the smaller and greater community?

Or because I want to take a selfie on top the world? 

Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog?

Maybe. Maybe not. But the real problem was that I never asked, that I never allowed myself to consider the possibility that there were unhealthy byproducts. How could I? To kill my darlings would be to kill myself. 

Why am I dragging Mary up the mountain? 

Kevin Ashton, in How to Fly a Horse, tells of the gruesome story of a time when "doctors did not scrub in or out of the operating room, and were so proud of the blood on their gowns that they let it build up throughout their careers." And because it was a teaching hospital, it was common practice for doctors to deliver babies after dissecting corpses. 

The hospitals mortality rate was so terrible mothers would often rather give birth in the streets, on their own, rather than in the hospital. Because their survival rate was higher. 

Yet, none of the doctors asked why or assumed they played a role in any of the deaths. When asked to simply wash their hands, almost immediately, the mortality rate went from 18% to zero. 

However, "This was not enough to overcome the skepticism. Charles Delucena Meigs, an American obstetrician, typified the outrage. He told his students that a doctor's hands could not possibly carry disease because doctors are gentlemen and 'gentlemen's hands are clean' (via).

Charles Delucena Meigs, the American obstetrician, was doing great things - saving lives and advancing our understanding of the human body. Why would he ever need to question his actions when his motives were so good? 

Because people we're dying. And at that point, it shouldn't have mattered his perspective, his convictions on the cleanliness of a man's hands because, people were dying. 

And people are always more important than convictions.

I want to be a writer. Bad. But more than that, I want to be a better person. Writing has helped me be that, I think, but not always. Sometimes not. 

Because sometimes, instead of helping and loving and living a life worth writing about, I drag Mother Mary up the mountain. 

And the selfie just isn't worth it.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  The DR Who Championed Hand-washing  :  How to Fly a Horse :  Open Thoughts

Breath, by Olbinski, is a deep punch to the (creative) soul

"The moment I heard the opening thump of bass…I knew I would be using this song for my film. But then those haunting vocals hit my ears…and blew my mind. It was like a punch deep in my soul. It’s hard to explain that feeling when you first hear a song and you immediately fall in love with it" (via).

Mike Olbinksi is a storm chaser, photographer, and an overall pretty amazing artist who has inspired me more than once. And his latest work, Breath, a storm time-lapse film in black and white, is no exception. 

"About halfway through editing," Olbinski writes, "I knew the song title would be my film title as well. It was so perfect I couldn’t believe it. Sometimes for me…when I’m chasing or watching an amazing storm…I’ll realize I haven’t taken a breath in awhile. Never really thought of it until I heard this song."

As you may have noticed, for the past month or so, I've stopped writing (more thoughts on that to come). It started consciously in December because I wanted to truly enjoy and unplug over the break. I was supposed to break the fast on New Year's Eve, but couldn't because, like Olbinksi (only opposite), I've been unable to breath. So I took another two-week gulp of air and planned on perhaps another six. 

But then I came across Olbinski: "I hadn’t even planned to start working on this film yet," he continues, "but I was so inspired that I furiously began to lay down time-lapse clips. I couldn’t stop pouring over it. It was last September and I was supposed to be working on Monsoon IV, but I forgot all about it once I heard Ex Makina’s “Breathe.” It almost felt like it was made for a black and white storm film." 

Inspiration inspires inspiration, furious creativity, and moments of intense clarity where we forget meetings, deadlines, lunch, even to breath. And I love that. Because that means it comes from somewhere outside ourselves, and because when it hits, we have to saturate ourselves in it, envelope it, and then, get it out.

Like filmmaking.

Like writing. 

And that's inspiring. Beautiful. "Like a punch deep in my soul." Which I desperately needed. 

Thank you, Mike Olbinski!

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Inspiration  :  On Creativity  :  Mike Olbinski

Oprah Winfrey, on hope, and a possible future.

“The one quality that all of them seem to share is the ability to maintain hope for a brighter morning, even during their darkest nights.”

"It doesn't say, 'America.'"

Sadie did not attend school beyond the second grade. Instead, she worked. Like many of her should-be schoolmates living in Lancaster, South Carolina. Hine photographed the mill school, and the public school where non-mill children went.

Lewis Hine caption: This is where the mill children go to school. Lancaster, S.C. Enrollment 163– attendance, usually about 100. There are over 1,000 operatives in the mill. These are all that go to school from this mill settlement, which is geographically a part of Lancaster, but on account of the taxes has been kept just out of the corporate limits. Nov. 30/08. Location: Lancaster, South Carolina.

Lewis Hine caption: This is where the other children go to school. Public School: Lancaster, South Carolina, November 1908.

In a time where the America is in constant pursuit of making itself great again, one has to question, if the image of Sadie didn't say America, what did? And what does?

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Sadie's Story  :  Photography

Treehouse Living

Sometimes, watching these sort of lifestyles plants seeds of envy, regret, and a whole lot of discontent. Other times, they inspire. Not to live in a treehouse necessarily (although I absolutely would) but to think outside my often times commercial box, and live different. Sometimes radically but more so simply.

Because don’t need a treehouse for that. Just courage. 

Christmas 2017

Merry Christmas! 

Like many of you, I’m checking out for the holiday season.   

See you in a couple days! And again, Merry Christmas!!!

A space for home

This transition process is taking longer than we expected. We still don't have lampshades, we have to borrow my in-laws vacuum almost weekly, and our dining room still doesn't have a working table and chairs - we have to crowed around a small countertop island to eat as a family.

But those are simple things that can easily change in the near future. It's the other stuff that's taking time, the human stuff, the kids crying themselves to sleep because they're thinking and dreaming and missing China stuff. The missing home stuff. And I didn't know what to do. 

We can talk about China and their friends, revisite old photographs and some of our favorite memories, and we can talk about all the blessings we've been able to experience since arriving back in the states. But that doesn't seem to help. Not much anyway. So resort to words like, "It will be okay, I promise. You just need time," or, "by this time next year, you'll be feeling much better, I promise." But they're empty. Because really, I have no idea if it will be okay, if things will get better. If they will ever stop missing home.

My optimism, in the end, amounts to nothing.

But then, this morning, my wife sent me a text that convicted and challenged my heart. She was writing to share the news that she'd been featured on a forum that receives close to a million submissions, and she was one of seven people chosen. "It's not a big deal," she wrote, "but it is just a little encouraging. She continued:

It's funny how I am feeling so sad about loss and constantly worried I'll shrivel, but there are spaces of delight here. Just comparing apples and oranges. But getting this photo featured means more than just that. It means there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now.

I loved the way she said that, "there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now" because it reminded me that hope is active.

It is her taking pictures every day, even when she doesn't feel like it because its her and her passion and the best way she knows how way capture life, because soon enough these times will be gone.

It's her working on a home, daily, even when there isn't any more money left or much to do so she rearranges the few pieces of furniture for a second, third, and forth time because that's how she builds a home, little by little, and over time. 

It's how she moves towards hope.

Hope is active, optimism passive. Optimism believes things will get better and turn out okay while hope gets off the couch and ensures that they do - even when it's hard to believe that it will.

"There are spaces of delight here", and with hope, those spaces will expand and grow and fill up with memories, laughter, and Life. 

Until this space becomes our Home.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living  :  Josey Miller Photography