Month: September 2017

October Surprises

Histories, mysteries and a brand new Green

 

By Brian Lampkin

For readers of young adult fiction, there’s only one date that matters: October 10, 2017. That’s the day that Dutton Books will release the new John Green novel, Turtles All the Way Down. It’s Green’s first book in five years. The extraordinary success of The Fault in Our Stars left Green wondering if he’d ever write another book.

In 2016, he said of his time between books: “Somewhere in that period, my job stopped being Person Who Writes Books, which is a present-tense job title, and became Person Who Wrote That One Book, which is a past-tense job title.” His thousands of fans had begun to despair: There might never be another emotionally wrenching, radically inspiring, real-life-revealing John Green novel. In a tearful YouTube post, Green added, “I don’t know if I’ll ever publish another book and even if I do, I don’t know whether people will like it.”

But here it is, finally, another book filled with “shattering, unflinching clarity in a brilliant novel of love, resilience and the power of lifelong friendship,” according to Dutton Books. Scuppernong Books will host a Midnight Release Party of Turtles All the Way Down immediately after a showing of The Fault in Our Stars at the Carolina Theatre at 9 p.m. on October 9.

Other October New Releases:

October 3: Origin, by Dan Brown (Doubleday, $29.95). As excited as the YA world is about John Green, there remain equally dedicated readers of Dan Brown (surely this is not what is meant by the term “writers of color”). This novel will “navigate the dark corridors of hidden history and extreme religion.” Sound familiar?

October 3: Going Into Town: A Love Letter to New York, by Roz Chast (Bloomsbury, $28). From the No. 1 NYT bestselling author of Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, Roz Chast’s new graphic memoir is a hilarious illustrated ode/guide/thank-you note to Manhattan as only she could write it.

October 10: The Third Reich: A History of Nazi Germany, by Thomas Childers (Simon & Schuster, $35). By 1932 the Nazis had become the largest political party in Germany. Although Hitler became chancellor in 1933, his party had never achieved a majority in free elections. Within six months the Nazis transformed a dysfunctional democracy into a totalitarian state and began the inexorable march to World War II and the Holocaust. Sounds like necessary reading for our times.

October 17: Where the Past Begins: A Writer’s Memoir, by Amy Tan (Ecco Press, $28.99). The author of The Joy Luck Club and The Valley of Amazement delves into vivid memories of her traumatic childhood, confessions of self-doubt in her journals, and heartbreaking letters to and from her mother and gives evidence to all that made it both unlikely and inevitable that she would become a writer.

October 17: The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1: 1940-1956 (Harper, $45). A comprehensive and historically accurate text of the known and extant letters that she wrote. Intimate and revealing, this compilation offers fans and scholars generous and unprecedented insight into the life of one of our most significant poets.

October 24: I Can’t Breathe: A Killing on Bay Street, by Matt Taibbi (Speigel & Grau, $28). In America, no miscarriage of justice exists in isolation, of course, and in I Can’t Breathe Taibbi examines the conditions that made an infamous tragedy possible. Featuring vivid vignettes of life on the street and inside our Kafkaesque court system, Taibbi’s kaleidoscopic account illuminates issues around policing, mass incarceration, the underground economy and racial disparity in law enforcement.

October 31: The King Is Always Above the People: Stories, by Daniel Alarcon (Riverhead, $27). A slyly political collection of stories about immigration, broken dreams, Los Angeles gang members, Latin American families, and other tales of high-stakes journeys, from the award-winning author of War by Candlelight and At Night We Walk in Circles.  OH

Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books.

Martin’s Mixture

A former two-time governor argues that science points to God

 

By D.G. Martin

What would be rarer than a total eclipse of the sun?

My answer: a serious book about science or religion written by a former governor of North Carolina or any other state.

We had our solar eclipse in August, and our former two-term governor Jim Martin has given us a serious book on both science and religion.

As the son of a Presbyterian minister and a Davidson College and Princeton University trained chemist, Martin is a devoted believer — in both his religion and the scientific method. His book Revelation Through Science: Evolution in the Harmony of Science and Religion is his effort to show that the discoveries of science pose no threat to Christianity or any other religion.

He is a champion of the scientific method and, without apology, endorses the discoveries his fellow scientists have made, including the Big Bang theory of the origin of the universe and basics of the Theory of Evolution.

But, as a lifelong Christian, he believes the Bible is “the received word of God, the Creator and Sustainer of the universe and of any life it holds, on Earth or elsewhere. I believe the Bible is our best guide to faith and practice.

“I believe there is, and can be, no irreconcilable conflict between science and religion, for they are revealed from the same God. Even more than that, as a Christian, I believe that God is most clearly revealed in the life and teaching of Jesus Christ. Furthermore, I firmly believe that a loving God intended us to have the capacity to observe and interpret nature, so that we would grow in understanding the majesty and mystery of His creation and all that followed.”

How can Martin reconcile his scientific truths with the biblical account of a six-day creation or with the related belief that the Earth was created about 6,000 years ago?

He admits that has not always been easy. When he was active in politics and serving as governor from 1985 through 1993, he would sometimes avoid discussion of these questions. For instance, once during his time as governor he visited the small town of Hobucken on Pamlico Sound. He stopped at the local fishing supply store at R. E. Mayo Fish & Supply and saw a “monstrous skeletal whale head standing right outside the store.”

Martin remarked to some of the local people, “Wow! That whale must have lived and died there millions of years ago!”

In his book, Martin writes that everything got quiet. Then, one person responded, “No, sir, we reckon she couldn’t have been there more’n six thousand years!”

Martin admits, “I did not stand my ground and debate the age of the Earth with these fine gentlemen. I knew what I knew, part of which was that they knew what they knew, and this debate was not winnable.”

Now Martin is ready, not to debate, but to explain that science’s conclusions about the time of creation (13.7 billion years ago) and the age of the Earth (4.5 billion years ago) are firmly based. More importantly for him, they are not in conflict with religion, including the creation accounts in the Book of Genesis.

In his 400-page book he lays out a seminar for the “educated non-scientist,” explaining the awesome complexities and orderliness of our world. He gives details of the sciences of astronomy, physics, biology, evolution, geology, paleontology, organic chemistry, biochemistry and genomics, including efforts to spark living organisms from inert chemicals.

With every scientific advance or explanation of how the world came about and works now, Martin says there is a further revelation from the Creator.

Does he assert that these advances prove the existence of God?

No, but throughout the book he points out what he calls “anthropic coincidences” that made for a universe that “was physically and chemically attuned very precisely for the emergence of life, culminating thus far in an intelligent, self-aware species.”

Recently he explained to me the importance of the power of gravity or the “gravity constant.” “If the pull of gravity were slightly stronger,” he said, “the universe would’ve collapsed. If it was slightly weaker, there’d be no stars, the same, because it had to be precisely balanced with the energy and power of that burst of expansion from the beginning, so astronomers therefore conclude that there was a beginning, just as in Genesis 1:1, In the beginning, Pow.”

Martin explained that, like gravity, “there are a number, about a half dozen, physical constants, all of which are precisely balanced for us to be here. One astronomer said, ‘It’s as if the universe knew we were coming.’ All of this implies purpose, and science cannot ask questions about purpose. Science cannot get answers about purpose, but that doesn’t mean there’s no purpose. It’s clear from this evidence that we didn’t get here by unguided chance. In that way, science points to God. In that way, science tells us that God is. Science does not tell us who God is. It doesn’t differentiate between different denominations, different theological traditions, or insights, or reasonings, but it does support all of them in that sense.”

If these discussions of science and religion are too complicated for readers, they should not put down the book before reading its final chapter in which Martin describes his personal journey of faith, study, service, and tolerance and respect for the opinions of those who see things differently.

As a political figure and former Republican governor, does Martin share his thoughts on science and politics?

He asks his readers, “Which political party is anti-science?”

Their answer, he says, would likely reveal their political orientation.

Martin agrees with Alex Berezow, founding editor of the “RealClearScience” website. Berezow asserts that partisans in both parties are “equally abusive of science and technology, albeit on different topics and issues.”

Martin confesses that several positions held by many Republicans are unsustainable in light of the findings of science. He notes that some Republicans believe global warming is a myth.

But, he writes, “Denial is indefensible.”

He continues, “Instead of futile denial that excessive carbon dioxide from combustion of coal and oil contributes to global warming, Republicans should let science be science.”

Anyone who thinks this statement represents Martin’s complete acceptance of a liberal environmentalist position on clean energy would be misled. His response to the carbon crisis is increased reliance on nuclear power because wind and solar alternatives can only make minor contributions to our energy needs. In bold print he asserts, “If we cannot accept nuclear power as an irreplaceable part of the solution, how serious are we about the problem?”

Whether or not you agree with Martin’s views on religion, science or politics, his book is a welcome gift to a country that is in great need of what his book gives us: clear, thoughtful, and respectful discussion of important, misunderstood, and controversial topics.

Too bad such books are as rare as a total solar eclipse.  PS

D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch, which airs Sundays at noon and Thursdays at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV.

The Creative Ferment

On the Trail of Kombucha and Avocado Toast

 

By Maria Johnson

I fancy myself an open-minded person, especially when it comes to matters of the palate.

I’ll taste or drink almost anything once, especially if it claims to keep you healthy. Heck, I’ll even learn to pronounce it.

For example, in the early aughts, I dabbled in acai (ah-SIGH). The proponents of this purple berry claimed that it promoted clear skin, a chipper immune system and snappy thinking while reducing various irritations, including the one that comes with training yourself to say ah-SIGH instead of AKAY.

Later, I was down with quinoa (KEEN-wah), the high-protein grain that keeps your blood sugar low and your innards marching along.

More recently, I was game for matcha (MACHA), the green tea powder that a friend promised would set me afire with energy. Why this seemed like a good idea to me, I’m not sure. I’m a pretty energetic person to start with. But I tried it.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!

Too mucha for me.

So naturally, I was curious when the subject of kombucha (com-BOOCHA) came up a few months ago in a conversation with some twentysomething folks.

“Tell me about the kombucha,” I said. From the looks on their faces, I knew that I had crossed into old ladydom. I had placed the article “the” in front of a noun I knew nothing about. It was like my mom asking me to help her with
The Google.

They were gracious. They explained that kombucha is a fermented tea that a) some people tolerate and b) some people think is vile. They contorted their faces into Mr. Yuk expressions. It did not seem like a great sales pitch to me.

At the same time, I learned that kombucha is sometimes paired with avocado toast (familiar words, sigh of relief). I also found out that an Australian millionaire, whom I imagine also puts “the” in front of nouns he knows nothing about, had offended millennials by saying they could not afford to buy houses because they indulged in overpriced avocado toast.

I wanted to say, “Well, he does have a point there, about daily spending habits . . .” but decided my cred with The Young People had suffered enough.

A few weeks later, a high school student was telling me about visiting her older sister in Los Angeles.

“What did y’all do?” I said.

“Well, she and her friends are yoga girls, so we drank kombucha and ate avocado toast,” she said with a wry smile.

That did it. I had to try kombucha and avocado toast. With someone. But not just anyone. Someone with refined taste buds. Someone who would tell
the truth. Someone who would waste a morning with me. Someone like my friend Carter.

I appealed to her over a nonhealthy lunch.

“Will you try kombucha with me?” I asked.
“That crap made with algae?” she said.

“It’s not made with algae.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “They ferment it with algae, then skim the scum off, and serve it to people like you.”

“It’s not algae,” I maintained.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Will you go with me?”

“No”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What if we eat avocado toast with it?”

She stopped chewing her sweet-potato fries and fixed me through squinty eyes.

“You know what that is, right?” I coaxed. “It’s basically guacamole. Mmmm. Guacamohhhhh-leeeee.”

Her gaze narrowed.

“OK,” she said.

Off we went one Friday morning. I had sniffed out a coffee shop near UNCG that, according to its website, served locally made kombucha.

Alas, the young woman behind the counter told us the kombucha queen had left the hive. Also, they did not serve avocado toast.

We rolled our eyes in first-world disappointment.

“Look, we’re on a mission to be hip,” I told the young woman. “You’ve got to help us.”

She studied us, a huddled mass of middle-aged moms yearning to be cool, with a look that said, Am-I-being-punk’d? She suggested that we look downtown.

On the way, we tried another place, a neighborhood bakery. Yes, they served coffee. No, they did not serve kombucha.
Why ever not?

“It’s terrible,” the manager said matter-of-factly.

We nodded in understanding. And where could we get some of this terribleness?

She suggested a tea shop downtown.

On the way, Carter read from her phone, educating us about kombucha. An ancient Japanese tea, it’s supposed to impart a host of healthy benefits. Apparently, your intestinal flora, which are a critical part of your immune system, do a happy dance whenever they’re drenched in kombucha, which is brewed with a gelatinous disc of yeast and active bacterial cultures. The disc is known by the acronym SCOBY.
“What does that stand for?” I asked.

“Stuff composed of bacterial yuck, I guess,” said Carter, only she did not use the word “stuff.”

We pulled up to the tea shop, which appeared to be a bar. It also appeared to be closed.

“Maybe it’s a kombucha speakeasy,” said Carter. “Go to the door and say, ‘SCOBY.’ “

I pressed my nose to a window in the door and cupped my hands around
my eyes.

The inside did not look like a kombucha-ry.

It was time to fall back on an old reporter’s trick: Ask random people.

I zeroed in on a guy whom Carter, a devotee of true-crime TV, immediately profiled as a police officer, maybe because he was wearing a laminated badge on his belt and walking toward the police department. Carter shook her head at my folly, staying several paces away in an I-don’t-know-her posture.

“Excuse me,” I said to the municipal fellow. “Do you know any place around here that serves kombucha?”

He promptly directed us to Scuppernong, the independent bookstore on South Elm Street. He said that he had tried kombucha and liked it, but that some people didn’t care for it.

“It’s kind of vinegary,” he said.

I rejoined Carter, who was thunderstruck.

“Never judge a detective by his cover,” she said as we hoofed it over to Scuppernong. Jackpot. A barista named Rachel opened a cold bottle of UpDog Kombucha, which is made in Winston-Salem in (what else?) small batches. Two Wake Forest University grads, both yoga girls, started the line of flavored kombuchas. Their flavors are named after yoga poses.

Rachel filled beer glasses with apple-ginger Wild Thing.

Carter and I made Mr. Yuk faces and looked at each other.

The liquid was cloudy yellow.

Well, here’s SCOBY in your eye.

We picked up the glasses and sipped. Carter’s frown persisted.

I . . . kinda liked it.

It was tart, in an apple cider vinegar sort of way. Slightly sweet. Not bad.

I sipped again. Yeah, I could live in L.A.

Rachel poured us another flavor. This one, called Happy Baby, was lavender-infused. It was clearer yellow and fizzier.

Carter allowed that it was not disgusting. She said kombucha reminded her of the apple cider vinegar concoction that her husband John drank when his knees ached.

Did she want some more kombucha?

“No,” she said. “My knees don’t hurt.”

Did Rachel happen to be harboring any avocado toast behind the bar?

“No,” she said. “But we should. I mean, we have kombucha.”

Carter and I turned to our cell phones. A wannabe’s work is never done.

Finally, we sussed out avocado toast at Clean Juice, a Friendly Center juice bar that whirls together all kinds of interesting ingredients, including religion and smoothies. “I Run on Jesus & Juice,” said a T-shirt for sale there.

I refrained from saying anything about Jesus Christ, king of the juice, as I ordered the avocado toast.

A woman ahead of us was getting take-out avocado toast to deliver to her daughter during high school lunch.

“It’s really good,” she promised. “You’ll love it.”

And we did. The toast was crunchy and nutty, and the spread was buttery and peppery. Conclusion: It’s hard to hurt an avocado.

The juicery did not sell kombucha, however, so we were robbed of the  heavenly experience of trying them together. Still, we could see how they might go well — the bite of kombucha balanced against the richness of the avocado.

Balance, we agreed, was critical in food and in life.

I searched the menu for a kombucha substitute.

“Wanna do a shot of wheat grass?” I offered.

“No,” said Carter.

Clearly, I had pushed our friendship to the limit.

She got up to leave. She needed to find balance, she said.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“McDonald’s.”  OH

Maria Johnson and her intestinal floral can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

Penn Ultimate

You’ve heard Vaughan Penn,
whether you knew it or not

Perhaps it was preordained or simply a genetic predisposition, but when George and Dixie Penn had their firstborn, she was destined to be involved in music. The couple had formed a jazz orchestra about the time they were married, and before long, baby girl Vaughan came along. By age 3 she was already singing in church and at family get-togethers. Her parents bought her a guitar at 14 and in no time she was not only playing it but writing songs with it, as well.

“They’ve probably been inspiring me even before I was born,” says Penn with a hearty laugh. “My mom taught me how to sing and my dad taught me all about harmony. They’ve always encouraged me, so I really don’t know what else I would’ve done.”

But they also stressed education (you know, in case that “music thing” didn’t work out), so Penn earned a degree from Appalachian State, before leaving her hometown of Madison for the bright lights and big city of Los Angeles.

It seemed at first that the homegrown musician was on the fast track to fame and fortune as she landed an indie deal with Stevie Nicks’s solo label, Modern Records. But before the album was finished, the label lost its distribution deal with Atlantic, and the project was shelved.

“The silver lining was that I was able to make all these connections not only in the music business but in the movie and TV industry, and that opened a lot of doors,” Penn recalls. “I began to realize that writing songs for movies and television was a possibility, but they all said, ‘Come back when you have a CD.’”

So she formed her own record label, Meepers Music, recorded a CD, and began shopping it around. She soon had her first placement, for the NBC series Providence, which set in motion an unabated string of more than 150 TV placements (most recently one for Oprah’s Hero Effect series) and over a dozen cuts for movies.

All the while Penn’s been recording and touring. She moved back to N.C. and co-owns Traffic Sound Studio in Charlotte where she is currently working on her eighth release, titled Acoustic Detour. She tours both nationally and locally, including a stop at Lucky 32 October 24 and the O.Henry Ballroom (with the Penn Family Band sitting in) November 4.

“I’ve been richly blessed,” she says modestly. “I give it all to God and ask that I be a worthy messenger.”  OH

For more info go to www.vaughanpenn.com. For more info go to www.

— Ogi Overman

Prayers and Poetry

To see inward, first look up

 

By Jim Dodson

Early one morning not long ago, as I do most days, I took the day’s first cup of Joe out to the front yard to sit for a spell in an old wooden Adirondack chair that provides a wide view of the night sky. Something about its vast clockwork beauty comforts me. My foundling dog, Mulligan, seems to dig our predawn ritual, too.

October and November’s skies, particularly in the hours well before sunrise, are among the clearest of the year, and this particular morning was outstanding, with Venus shining over my left shoulder and a gibbous moon over the right, casting faint shadows on the lawn.

The stillness was deep, the silence broken only by a lone dog barking miles away and the sound of a train grinding over the horizon to its destination.

Such peaceful hours — my version, I suppose, of an ancient matins ritual, a venture into thin spaces — always restore something needed in me, a healing sense of optimism and gratitude. Pieces of my favorite poems and prayers waft through my mind.

The recovering journalist in me, however, understands that the serenity of a glittering firmament is either a gift from God or a grand parlor trick of the universe, merely the latest quiet before the storms of another day on this beautiful blue planet we inhabit.

As I sat there gazing up at the early stars, the largest Atlantic hurricane of modern times was bearing down upon the Florida Straits, a Cat 5 storm with eight million people in its sights. Overnight, an 8.1 earthquake had rocked the coast of Southern Mexico, the largest recorded in that nation in 100 years, killing 96, many in their beds.

This was mere days after a Gulf hurricane transformed Houston into a waterland of death and misery, robbing tens of thousands of their homes. There were also record wildfires burning out West and killer floods across India.

Suddenly I heard the voice of my old Latin teacher, Professor A.

“So, young souls, why are you here?” he asked on the first day of Introduction to Latin and the Classics. This was the Fall of  1971.

A girl spoke up to say she believed Latin was necessary for the law career she hoped to have someday.

Another, aiming for medicine, concurred.
“I heard it was a fun class and I need three credits to graduate,” offered some wiseguy in back. The class laughed.

Around the room it went until it came to me.

Truthfully, a freshman English lit and history major, I was there because I’d opted to sign up for three Latin courses in order to avoid a single course in calculus, what my faculty advisor referred to as the “classical death option.”

“The second book I ever owned was an illustrated book of Greek and Roman Myths,” I said, hoping that would suffice.

Professor A. smiled. “If I may ask, what was your first?”

“The Little Prince,” I replied.

This brought another smile. “Perhaps someday you will be an astronaut.”

Then, a bit of advice. “Anytime you wonder why you’re really here on this Earth, I suggest that you simply look up and let the wonder fill you they way it grounded ancient travelers and sages. The sky makes philosophers of everyone.”

Four autumns later, on my way home to Greensboro to take a job as a rookie reporter at my hometown paper, I dropped by Professor A.’s office to say thank you for opening a larger world to me. Because of him, I’d read Cicero and Ovid and a translated Odyssey and come to love the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. If my grasp of Latin wasn’t the best, though a few bits bubble up from time to time, my understanding of the Roman and Greek minds was like a gift from the gods, something I would take with me — and turn to — throughout my life and career.

Luis Acevez was a dapper little man, a scholarly son of Guadalajara who favored tweed jackets and striped bowties. His bearing was formal, Old World. He stood and offered me his hand, wished me Godspeed with a hint of a bow and that same Socratic smile. “Any time you lose your way or forget why you are here, just look up and the stars will remind you.”

He went to his shelf and pulled out a slim volume, a new Penguin edition of Emperor Aurelius’s famous meditations.

“Salve,” he said, offering the classic Roman greeting which meant Hail and Live Well!

I saw Professor A. only one other time. If I believed in accidents, this might simply have been a happy one. But life has shown me there’s no such thing as accidents.

Many years later, I was briefly visiting the campus to receive an honor for my writing. While killing time at the student bookstore, I spotted him — almost didn’t recognize him without his tweeds and striped ties, not really sure he would remember me.

“Ah,” he said with delight, “the young fellow who didn’t become an astronaut after all.”

I was touched that he remembered me. He’d been retired for more than a decade. I was even more touched when he mentioned that he’d taken great pleasure in following my career as a journalist.

By this point in my still-young working life, I’d written about everything from pointy-headed Klansmen in Alabama to serial killers in Atlanta. I’d covered so many misbehaving politicians and so much violent death and mayhem across my native South, I’d finally been force to flee to a winding green river in Vermont to try to sort out the world and find a measure of inner peace. That’s where I discovered arctic winter nights full of glittering stars and a silence so deep and healing, I heard my own pulse slowing down. That’s where I reread the classics, rediscovered that old copy of the Meditations and started my life anew. My presence on the campus was because of a memoir I’d published about my final travels with a wise and funny father, an adman with a poet’s heart who helped me find the way to a more fulfilling life.

Though I never mentioned his name, Professor A. had played a part in that eventual rebirth and memoir.

So I thanked him again for that new Penguin edition of the Meditations which was still with me, now dog-earred, impossibly marked up and coming apart at the seams.

This seemed to please him.

Since that time, whenever the world itself appeared to be coming apart at the seams, I have turned to poets and Rome’s Philosopher King for useful perspective. 

“And anytime I forget why I am here,” I told my old professor, “I simply look up at the stars.” He just smiled.

“Salve,” he said.

“Salve,” I returned the ancient greeting.

This is why I sit beneath the stars most mornings with my coffee and my dog, Mulligan, named for a second chance at life, regardless of season or weather. Even if they aren’t visible, I know the stars are always there.

Often I send up a simple prayer of thanks — the medieval Christian mystic Meister Eckhart says a simple thank-you works wonders — and other times I simply think about poets and philosophers who’ve helped me on my long journey from darkness to light, especially an adman with a poet’s heart and a dapper little professor who found his guidance in the stars.

“Last night,” wrote the poet Wallace Stevens, “I spent an hour in the dark transept of St. Patrick’s Cathedral where I go now and then in my lonely moods. An old argument with me is that the true religious force in the world is not the church but the world itself: the mysterious callings of Nature and our responses.”

Over supper recently, a friend who described her pilgrimage to see the Summer’s eclipse in totality as “a spiritual experience,” remarked that the record hurricane and earthquake were merely Mother Earth explaining that we have become careless stewards of this marvelous blue planet.

I suddenly remembered a passage from the old Emperor that I committed to memory decades ago: “Think of your many years of procrastination; how the gods have repeatedly granted you periods of grace, of which you have taken no advantage. It is time to realize the nature of the universe to which you belong, and of that Controlling Power whose offspring you are; and to understand that your time has a limit to it. Use it, then, to advance your enlightenment.”

Almost on cue for the gods, another old friend at the table who finds his deepest healing in making music with his one of his six guitars, began quoting a Southern troubadour named Walt Wilkins, whose song perfectly explained my mornings beneath the heavens.

I can’t explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
There’s always more than what appears to be
And when the light’s just right
I swear I see poetry  OH

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.