because perhaps – in exercising your citizen rights and duties – you should be as informed as possible.
because perhaps – in exercising your citizen rights and duties – you should balance what you have learned with what moral integrity actually means and determine where – on the continuum – you honestly stand.
because perhaps – in exercising your citizen rights and duties – you should seek the truth – not just the bandwagon hooplah of your political bubble, the one that excuses you from any other research.
because perhaps – in exercising your citizen rights and duties – you should maybe feel protective of your citizen rights and duties.
because perhaps – in exercising your citizen rights and duties – you should vote for that which will ensure you continue to have these citizen rights and duties.
just a block or so east, around the bend and a bit further south is the southport beach house. built during the years 1936-1941, the united states department of the interior has since declared that it is on the national register of historic places. a bit up the shoreline is simmons island beach house, built around the same time, also a designated historical site. both are stunning eclectic examples of tudor revival buildings on the shoreline, architecturally beautiful.
we are deeply connected to “our” beach house for many reasons, including that it is in our ‘hood. it was the site of our wedding reception – so it is filled with memories of people we love, toasts, a food truck, music, a bonfire, hula hoops and daisy cupcakes. we will forever feel connected to that art deco place and love that it has undergone renovation and preservation work, just as the simmons beach house has as well.
it isn’t all that complicated. protecting history and historic sites for this-land-is-your-land-this-land-is-my-land seems pretty basic.
but we live in a country with an administration that struggles to embrace truth – the truth of history, the truth of how historic sites inform us. instead of telling an honest story, they are choosing to whitewash anything that gets in the way of their extremist-male-dominated-white-supremacist narrative.
instead of preserving all of which has made this nation both beautiful and ugly, both stunning and stunned, both rich with hope and deeply wounded by the lack of this-land-was-made-for-you-and-me civil rights for all, this administration chooses to move forward with dumping history, banning books, paving and mining our national parklands, decimating the peoples’ house, rescinding the endangered species act, tossing environmental and wildlife protection management, eliminating mention of slavery and climate change… the list is expansive – all brought to you by this gluttonous administration and its wildly-bowing – and – wildly-profiteering sycophants.
the same department that listed southport beach house on the historic register: the department of the interior – whose mission statement is: “the u.s. department of the interior protects and manages the nation’s natural resources and cultural heritage; provides scientific and other information about those resources; and honors its trust responsibilities or special commitments to american indians, alaska natives, native hawaiians, and affiliated island communities.”
after my album as sure as the sun was released, the song slow dance was promoted to adult contemporary radio. listeners seemed to really like the song and it did fairly well on radio – eventually charting at #13 on the secondary market. i traveled to a lot of cities to be featured on radio shows – it was the early 2000s – and radio was still where it was at.
a very big radio personality in new york city – the program director of a big fm station there – invited me to dinner after our meeting. i met him – carrying the backpack full of music and clothes i needed for those recording/radio days in the city.
the bistro was veritas and it was way above my pay scale. the wine list was 3000 selections long – a full binder of choices with a wine cellar that had about 75,000 bottles of wine. it had earned a michelin star and three stars from the ny times. it was late 2002 and i sat down at what-i-remember-as a stainless steel bar, out of my league.
that evening the chef had a special offering – french truffles, just flown in – and my host – who was apparently a regular – ordered for both of us. i had never had a meal with courses that had their own wine offering before; it is not likely i will have such a lavish meal again. when the bill came – and its total announced itself off the check – i couldn’t help but think how many hungry people that amount of money might have fed right in that very city.
but the truth of it was that this was the core of things, how things worked, how things work.
and though i believe that people nationwide did indeed like my song, the inordinately steep price tag of radio promotion – for which i – as the owner of my recording label – was paying – was merely machination for the game. and my charting song was choreographed by a group of men who enjoyed eating at michelin star restaurants – on their radio tabs – around the country.
now, this enlightenment didn’t come to me sitting on that barstool that evening, having careful conversation and eating divine foods, sipping wine. that was all part of the design – to create a tapestry of reality around me – and every independent artist – so that we might continue to over-invest further and further into a system that was, at best, rigged and not real.
it seems more than ironic to me that the place of this learning – in retrospect – was at an establishment called veritas. veritas – the latin word for truth or reality, representing honesty, moral integrity and the alignment of one’s actions and words with facts or core values.
the restaurant was – in and of itself – lovely, though i stand firm on my thoughts about how better to use that kind of money.
but that word – veritas – has been coming up for me a lot lately, sort of stuck in my head, like gestures of songs get stuck on repeat, time and again.
as i look around – in the challenges we have faced and face – it would seem imperative that truth should be the basis upon which decisions are made, that truth and integrity should actually dictate actions and words, that facts should matter, should set the stage for accountability.
it would seem that all manipulation of the facts, warping of narrative, revising of the truth – to escape culpability – should fail in the end. ahh…perhaps we must be patient.
i sat on the barstool at that high-brow bistro – trusting a process that was not to be trusted, wined and dined, my very cautiously spent independently-owned-label’s marketing and promoting budget exploited by a system. i was one of the little people, taken advantage of.
and just as we look around in our current country and its circumstances, just as i – or you – deal with other personal matters of trauma – we can see the grooming systems – the skewed-to-one-side systems – out there – not to be trusted.
all too often, these words speak the truth: it happened. it was wrong. it matters.
and then what?
from my place off the barstool i’d add this: vincit omnia veritas – truth conquers all things.
no matter what someone wants you to believe about something, facts will stand the test of time, they will rise to the surface like a bobber on a lake, floating in incandescent shine into the air, ready for discovery. facts will – and should – lead the way, speaking loudly, burning down all the detriment of machinated false narrative, twisted stories that serve no purpose to truth.
“living your life in a bubble will give you the illusion that everything is ok.”
i know this is true. i know that – even though we are not members of the fiscally-elite, the upwardly-mobile, the investment-heavy, on the supposedly-can’t-be-touched rung of the caste ladder – we still live in a bubble. because we are white. because we were born to citizens of this nation and are – clearly – citizens ourselves. because we – even in the mediocre middle-ish of middle-class where we plop our pins of existence – are privileged. we – even with the challenges we face – in terms of income, healthcare and living expenses, loans of whatever sort we all need, the ability to get and consume food and water and a safe place to live – we are fortunate.
we are aware. and we are grateful. there is not a day that goes by that we don’t look at each other and – truly – say how very lucky we are.
and, yet, in that awareness we know that everything is not ok.
the membrane of whatever bubble in which we might reside is permeable. we participate in the gleaning of information, the parsing out of truth, the speaking-up against bigotry and extremism, the knowledge that these are dangerous times. we cannot linger within a bubble that allows us to flit from one day to another sans worry.
to walk in a world where you won’t talk about what is actually happening, where you won’t discuss corruption or the decimation of our nation, where you won’t “go there” as we have heard from those unwilling to, well, go there – feels as if there is an illusion that everything is just fine, that one feels untouchable, that someone else’s pain is not yours, that empathy is no longer in vogue.
it is disturbing that in order to reclaim our country we need all talk and join together and yet there are so many who just choose to linger in their bubbles, flitting about doing “normal” life – at a time when nothing is actually “normal” or, worse yet, floating in an echo chamber of propaganda – like a pod unto itself.
the bubble wand is one of those instantly recognizable things. it immediately conjures up images of iridescent bubbles floating mid-air, powered by nearby breezes. it is a visceral memory of childhood – ours, our children’s. a happy thought.
bubbles go hand in hand with unicorns and magical sunrises, joyous icons of life.
but bubbles pop. and unicorns don’t exist. and the sun draping the sky with the colors of rising doesn’t last beyond dawn. and reality is reality.
we are all in this…this world. everything is not ok.
lest we get lost in the illusion – and are therefore surprised at the cruelty, the destruction, the demolition of things good and natural and constitutional and humane – we need to be open to the truth of it all, to not be deluded, to not place stake in a mirage or a floating effervescent air globule.
everything is not ok. can we please address this honestly?
today. be the change, today. in your own little corner of the world, today. the change. what you wish to see in the world. today. be it. right where you are.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will change the narrative. i will expose ill intent, brazen abuse, toxic audacity, all manner of power and control that yields long-term devastating trauma.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will push back against lies, against spin, against complicity, against all manner of hiding the truth, all manner of abdicating responsibility, all manner of forever escaping culpability, all manner of those who walk free and without conscience.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will lift every one who has been harmed, every one who has been victim of monstrous wounds, every one who has not been safe. i will hold them tenderly and fiercely, i won’t let go.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. because i have spoken up, spoken out, acted on my words. i will protect my little corner of the world – historically and contemporaneously.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will lift the rug and sweep the dirt from beneath it. i will scrape through layers of the disregarded toxic, the loathsome secrecy of it all.
it is today. and today, i will be the change. i will not be silenced. i will breathe. and…exhale.
it is today. and today, i will be the change.
just as you can.
bridie’s words – an addendum to those of mahatma gandhi – be the change – in your own little corner of the world. that is where we all must start. that’s where i’m starting.
and the icefall went on and on, a looming presence as far as the eye could see, the night inky, the serac-umbrellas like mushroom caps over smooth slopes in shades of white and grey, the spectrum peeking out with the changing light. snow had fallen, stacking up in dune-piles created, urged by the wind, not yet sharpened by the coldest of temperatures. the telephoto lens captured it up close, though we were far away, many, many steps from the dangers of traversing the icefall, its chasms and crevasses.
the peony giggled, thinking it had fooled me for a moment, delighted with its fictitious story, its little tale of shape-shifting. knowing that it was just joshing me – steady in the real and good impact it has in this world – its merriment was because it was solidly based in its goodness. it had nothing to prove, no reason to make us believe it was goodness, because it just was.
and so it could play with us a bit, help us visualize, let us fly over the arctic or the himalayas in our minds. it could encourage imagination and fantasy. there was no fear of losing its way – for it would still fulfill its peony life, its peony self-actualization.
things that are good – that do no harm – do not concern themselves with convincing others that they are good. they just are. there is no reason to pretend to be something else, to permanently twist reality, to alter that which is truth.
the soft petals of the peony layered over each other, gorgeous bits of the bloom, exquisite.
we are fortunate to see such goodness, to witness it, to breathe it, to hold it.
i’m having a chance to renew my relationship with the harbor town. a tiny spurt of time here, a tiny spurt of time there. one of my favorite places on earth – the dock, at night, clanking masts, the sound of small fishing boats and soft troll motors – it is a good thing for me to revisit all this at a new time.
i didn’t know how much i needed to re-create this tie, to heal it. i didn’t know how much i needed to walk the pebbled beach, to scout for rocks and shells and driftwood, to sit and stare at the waves coming in.
when we left the last time we brought home this driftwood garland. we hung it in the place in our sunroom that seemed to be waiting for it. we sit next to it every day. and in the night that was draped in darkness from the storm, we sat next to it in candlelight.
we’ll go back. we’ll maybe pick up some more rocks for our rock garden. we may find a shell or two. we may bring home a piece of driftwood or other sea treasure. we’ll see.
the thing i do know is that each of these times i find another piece of me there. i rejuvenate another memory, process another bit of it all, feel affirmation.
somewhere on that beach, on that dock, in that town are pieces of my 19 year old self. the girl with the dog who climbed on the jetties and danced on the sand, who ran on the boardwalks and soaked in the sun on big old beach towels. there are pieces of me to reclaim, to go pick up in the corners of my memories, to re-empower. there are truths to release into the air of the world – finally. there are notes poised, floating in the air to compose, words in peripheral vision biding time to be written. i can feel the vibration of it all – that flutter in my chest.
and, though it is now a fancier bistro, the next time we’ll go – this place that was a pub where i’d fill up on baked clams and salty air. we didn’t go the last time because we knew it would be expensive and we are careful about our budget.
but the next time – yes – we will go.
because there is no price that you can put on the restoration of power, the retrieving of juju, the butterfly-net-capture-and-healing-release of muse that had been muted, stalled from trauma. to sit on those stools – even if they are different stools – is to sit on the sacred ground of yesterdays ago. it is something to celebrate.
the driftwood next to me in the sunroom taps my shoulder and my heart. it tells the story of ebb and flow, of survival and resilience, of transformative renewal and of a metamorphosis into something that has ridden the waves of the sound and – ultimately – emerged stronger.
and so i have some hesitancy on this. it was on the bottom shelf, tucked back into the shelf unit in the storage room, next to the blow-up pool floaties. it didn’t seem like i had thought about it for years. ok, for decades. i listed it for sale – after researching its ‘value’ as a vintage (circa 1980) cut-glass punchbowl set.
but part of my research brought me to a few blogposts others had written. and in those blogposts were these absolute gems about all the ways to use a lovely punchbowl. not just for punch.
the one that really stuck out for me – and debilitated my quest to sell-sell-sell – was the story about a lovely summer gathering where the person served gazpacho and crusty bread, glasses of chilled sauvignon blanc. yikes. i immediately wanted to have a lovely summer gathering where i serve gazpacho and crusty bread – each attendee ladling delicious soup into their handled cup and visiting on the deck or the patio under warm sun and blue skies.
so, yup…hesitancy. i mean, it all fits conveniently into a box – the base, the bowl, every last cup and hook – so why not just keep it a while longer…?
the power of story, eh?
i cried this morning. it wasn’t about the punchbowl. it was about seeing a post by my very own sister that made it obvious – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that she is completely on the other side of the current dangerous political divide.
gauging by how overtaken i was by grief, i guess i was holding out hope that the stories that are now reality in this country might have changed her mind, the minds of her immediate family members. because every story we are hearing breaks our hearts ever more. every story makes us question what in the hell is going on. every story makes us absolutely sick to our stomachs that this country has devolved into such a cruel and bigoted, sadistic and extreme place.
it is impossible for me to wrap my head around anyone – any.one. – finding acceptable any of these stories of the realities of this kind of depravity.
yet i know that there are media outlets that so many subscribe to – leave on in their family rooms, their florida rooms, their kitchens, their living rooms – for hours on end. these outlets distort the actual truth – to the nth degree. these outlets obfuscate. these outlets lie. and people are watching them, soaking it all in, pompom-ing them, lost in them.
lost.
and i feel totally crushed.
crushed.
the power of story.
used and misused.
i’ll probably eventually decide to keep the punchbowl. it is not likely to sell.
i will make gazpacho or vichyssoise and serve it in handled cut-glass cups. there will be glasses of chilled white wine and sunshine, laughter and conversation.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
reticent to un-decorate, we left it all up. we were just hesitant to take down all that glitters, all that sparkles, all that gives light to the season. we were hesitant because there has been so much dark.
it is not out of the norm to be questioning what is happening here. to give over – without inquiry to integrity or morality – is to abdicate, to align, to be complicit.
in this earliest part of 2026, i hope that there will movement to right this country and its unconscionable adoption of the unprincipled as its leaders. i hope there will be steps made that, instead of demolishing diversity, equity and inclusion, will light a fire beneath the heart strings of this very diverse populace, powerful wicks embracing differences. i hope that the inhumane and unjust treatment of people – downright cruelty – will cease. i hope that the constitution will hold.
it is outrageous – in this day and age – 2026 – a time that should be filled with brilliance, forward-advancing research, safety measures and social safety nets for all, a dedication to action concerning climate change, and a world concerned with those who follow – that we are in this place – by most measures – becoming a cauldron of atrocities.
it is unbelievable – in this day and age – 2026 – in this country – that we are surrounded by untruths, steeped in the tactics of evasion, drowning in elitist indulgences, worried about basic necessities.
it is chokingly sad – in this day and age – 2026 – right here and right now – that we are watching this democracy shake at its core, that we are being bullied from republic to regime.
leaving the holiday decorations up didn’t change any of it. but in these winter days of early darkness, it helped hold the light a little longer. and so, we have left a few bits still – bits of light surrounding us, not packed away.
