Okay, I am now thousands of miles from home and who did I meet tonight at dinner (who will be in my class for the next five weeks). . . a friend of Preston's. Yea, they hung out in Madison at the Terrace three weeks ago.

Ugh. What are the odds of that?!?!?

The world is too small.

I will tell you all about the journey to get here (a.k.a Trip from hell) as soon as I finish my three final papers, the first of which is due by 6am tomorrow morning.

My heart has gossamer wings
that know not the weight of time
nor the weariness of distance.

Clouds like watercolors
spread against the sky
pierced by
the final rays of sunlight
that come to rest
on the horizon

a dazzling red-orange sun sets
atop the scent of lilacs
wafting up from the street

a cool moon
hangs brilliantly
in the opposite sky
promising sweet dreams
and restful sleep

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought I would take a moment to share with you some of the things I love about my mom. . . as nutty as she is, she's often the only one who keeps me sane, and for that I am forever grateful.

I love how she sends me sarcastic greeting cards, (and usually a piece of chocolate) and always signs them: Love, The Mom

I love how my mom can make people feel comfortable and welcome in her home. Our house was always filled with kids - neighbor kids, friends from school, classmates that needed to escape their own homes.

I love how my friends, my siblings' friends, and the kids that pack groceries at the grocery store tell my mom stuff they don't tell anyone else.

I love how she can make any hair-brained idea I have come to life. Homecomings, dances, proms, theatre arts, band costumes, festivals, lock-ins, bookshelves, curtains, stools, easels, wallpaper, perms, all of it.

I love how she's not afraid of power tools like other moms.

I love knowing that no matter how old I am or how many thousands of miles away I live, I can always go home and she will always be there for me.

All that said, I'll leave you with words of wisdom straight from my Mom:
1. Life is a shit sandwich and each day is another bite.
2. If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.
3. When Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
4. God helps those who help themselves.
5. Cuz I'm the mom, that's why.
6. Live well, laugh often, love much.

I got this via email from a friend the other day and laughed so hard I thought I'd share. I hope you have friends like this...

Enjoy.

"Are you tired of all those mushy friends poems that sound good, but never come close to reality? Getting testy with people who think you should mail back those saccharine sweet nothings dripping with kittens, hearts and smiles, just to prove you're their friend ... again and again and again?

Well, here is the truth about friendship. . .

My Friend

When you are sad ...
I will get you drunk and help you plot revenge against the sorry ass who made you sad.

When you are blue ...
I'll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

When you smile ...
I'll know you finally got laid.

When you are scared ...
I will rag on you about it every chance I get.

When you are worried ...
I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit your stupid whining.

When you are confused ...
I will use little words to explain it to your dumb ass.

When you are sick ...
I will stay away from you until you're well again. I don't want whatever you have.

This is my oath ...
I pledge 'til the end.
Why, you may ask?
Because you're my friend!

Send this poem to ten of your closest friends or else you will have bad luck and go to hell and/or get depressed when you realize that you only have two friends and one of them is your mom.

p.s. A friend will help you move ...
A really good friend will help you move a body."

The artist knows each vein within the marble,
gives life to the delicate smooth skin of an angel.

Each day at his hand she emerges more.
He saves her from the trappings of lifelessness,
rescues her from being engulfed, consumed by stone.

He speaks to her as though she has sung him to sleep for a thousand years
and the seraph looks down at him with loving eyes but sad.

He knows no sunlight now,
only toils toward her freedom.

The wine
soaks
into the corners of her mind
blurring details,
blocking out all
but the dreamy cast
of a consciousness
unaware of reality.

It's the numbness
to which she's grown accustomed,
dependent.

Don’t wipe your melancholy on me, he screamed
those fingerprints of madness,
I won’t take it.

I never wanted this.
This is not what I wanted,
it’s not at all how I wanted it to be.

Meanwhile, the children cower
in the bedroom
surrounded by brightly colored toys
that give them no joy.

The door closes -
silence.

towering bricks
of the projects

seeping desperation

muddy water
wicked with disease

the plague of poverty

windows through which
no sunlight passes

name them what you want
the iron gates remain

fencing humanity in and out

It’s slow,
the journey toward becoming.

It’s filled with alleyways
down which the light
struggles to filter.

Recursive,
the exploration
of the mind,
the Self.

Rare
are the arteries,
the streets,
wide and easy to traverse.

There are no signs
telling you which way to go
or when to walk.

Your pace is your own,
and your destination unique
from other travelers
on common journeys.

Random quotes I ran into yesterday:

Explore the past, address the now, and choose your future.

You can’t fling the truth in someone’s face; the only real truth is the truth we discover for ourselves. (Yalom)

“Spring is the season of hope. . .” – Countess of Blessington

“Music produces a pleasure the world cannot do without.” – Confucious

Worked a ton of billable hours today, which was great, but exhausting.

Met with a new client for the first time in the morning. She couldn't find a parking space, so we met in her Mercedes Benz. (Again I ask myself what I'm doing here.) Anyway, that's not the point. . .

She was a teacher for twenty-five years and is incredibly interesting. She used to take groups of fifth and sixth grade students to Africa on school trips. At one point in the paper she was talking about a particular trip where she was given an award from "Dr. Achebe."

"As in Chinua Achebe?" I asked. "Yea," she said. My jaw must have dropped because she laughed. I was floored and had all kinds of questions about what he's like. She told me he's wheelchair bound, which I didn't know. Apparently he's also a very nice fellow and extremely welcoming and friendly.

Whoa. Too cool, I thought. But it gets better.

She shared a story about hanging out at Nelson Mandela's house and what a great sense of humour "Winnie" has. As in, Winnie Mandela! How great, to be on a first name basis with one of the world's most intriguing people. Apparently Winnie charges people to take tours of her house and shows them random stuff out of her and Nelson's amazing history.

I felt kind of special that I could share my experience of working with Osonye Onwueme. My pipe dream is to one day present at the same conferences as Onwueme and Achebe.

Despite being lightyears behind in my readings for all my classes, yesterday I started reading the autobiography of Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom.

I thought I'd share a tiny excerpt from the first chapter, in which he describes the village where he was born: "Mvezo, however, was a place apart, a tiny precinct removed from the world of great events, where life was lived much as it had been for hundreds of years" (3).

I drifted off to the memory
of an evening at a play
when Aaron was sad and tired
and climbed up in your lap.
You held him like it was the most
natural thing in the world.

And there in the darkness
he snuggled into your shoulder
and fell asleep.

He took comfort in you, and you let him.

Every day I respect who you are,
admire what you do,
believe in you.

Neither time nor distance
can erode that.

Desperate to say something,
anything,
before you walked away
I said, "I'll never get over you, will I?"

The truth is,
I don't want to.

I thought it might happen naturally
the degrees of separation growing
as we both entered a world
infinitely larger than where we came from

I thought the insatiable adoration would fade
since I only see you once a year,
and there are so many things
I don't know about you, not really. . .

Your hopes, your dreams,
the things that give you comfort.

But it hasn't.

If anything, it's grown deeper -
and I didn't think that was possible.

I wondered if I could come up with
100 things about you -
Then I wondered whether you
could come up with 100 things about me.

I drifted off to the memories
of a long time ago,
the roots of who we are

Back in the present,
I wondered if you've ever thought
about how fate seems to keep
throwing us together

I wondered if you ever think about me -
if the thought of us being together
is absurd to you

You are everything beautiful that inspires me -
Every gentle breeze that makes fragrant lilacs dance,
Every sunset whose red warmth lingers on wet sand,
The moonlight pulling its cool fingertips across sidewalks and treetops.

You are the strong threads of my inner peace -
The soul of me wandering freely outside my being,
The dawn that breaks on fields of golden wheat,
Every dew drop that creates ethereal rainbows in stormy skies.

You are everything beautiful that inspires me.

I sat for a while
on the stone bench
outside Pulitzer's Journalism Hall
soaking in the lush,
living scents of spring

Heard the crack of Gehrig's bat
and the baseballs he
sent careening through
the third floor windows

Left my shoes
beneath my backpack
and walked barefoot
across the plush lawn
feeling the dewy grass
between my toes

Lingered beneath the canopy
of pastel blossoms
letting the dark trees stretch
their wiry limbs over me
creating pink clouds, soft and sweet

Dreamed of the days
when Langston Hughes
laid on this lawn,
legs stretched out,
leaning on one elbow
reading excerpts to his lover

His ragged leather sandals tossed aside
half covered by a suede sportcoat
whose elbows were thin and shiny from wear

A mishmash of broken pencils and
pens unknowingly lifted from professors
strewn about pages from journals
containing lines that would one day
enlighten the world.

Thought of Alexander Hamilton
and FDR and what they studied here -
how it may have given them the insights
to later lead America

Pictured Dr. Spock
watching children laughing
as they toddled
along the cobblestones

Imagined Allen Ginsberg,
Jack Kerouac, William Burroughs
and Garcia Lorca -
the smoke they may have shared
on the stone slab steps of Low Library

Remembered Eisenhower, Madeline Albright,
Ruth Bader Ginsberg, and
Boutros Boutros Ghali -
the wars they fought,
the peace they sought
the direction they gave.

And then I sat for a moment
in complete silence
wondering who around me
was the next Nobel winner
to add to our list of 60+

I exhaled,
putting on my shoes
and gathered up my pack
wondering if the legends of this place
look over us aft they've passed
to guide a new generation