© 2011 photo heidi heath-garwood ~ Do you believe in the resurrection of dead things?  Like dreams forgotten – a life in ruins – hope lost?  The flourish of spring has a way to blossom within the soul a reminder of new beginnings no matter the circumstance.  Its beauty whispers a gentle truth that new beginnings come to us from some other beginning’s end.   Truly a time of year to stretch wide the arms and gather up bouquets of fragrant hope.   Faith echoes from earthen glory at every turn – hearty collection of leaves whish atop the Crape Myrtle stripped barren just days ago, while tiny crowns of day lilies tip faces upward amidst luscious emerald blades of foliage.  New nests and nut shells – grasslands awaken from dormant sleep of winter now ready for sheers and primping.  The clatter of rebirth brings a lift in the blood.

New breath is in the bud.  An aching and unrest to blossom into the destiny etched to the soul.  Life has a way of pouring you out while moments of spring splash refreshment to the spirit.   And all that is glorious in springtime could never be were it not for the harsh blades of pruning and shaving back.

There is a time for everything, and a season for  every activity under heaven:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather  them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.   Ecclesiastes

A time for all things – and the season for rebirth erupts to hope when a life sustains the clipping away of what unknowingly may hinder its most celebrated beauty.  To know a season of turbulence and turmoil prepares the heart to recognize and rejoice as even the smallest buds of hope wriggle forth from barrenness. 

Our hearts have been wrenched by unfathomable destruction of tornados, tsunamis and economic uncertainly.  Friends speak of heartbreak and illness as we navigate with urgency the thorny patches of wasteland.  But we cling to hope, for there is a season and time for all things under the heavens.  The eye stays fixed on the bud – slashed back and reduced to mere stubble, only to sprout forth in celebrated beauty at the proper time – to present infinite opportunities to bloom again.

Endings are part of beginnings.  Seasons do end and to make peace with that is to fling wide the heavy drapes, open the shutters and allow the splash of new beginnings to warm the body and soul.

Julia Cameron says wherever you are is always the right place.  There is never a need to fix anything, to hitch up the bootstraps of the soul and start at some higher place.  Start right where you are.

And where else is there?  What has been pruned is gone and though good-byes have sliced deep at the heart, they prepare us for greater challenges.   The beloved author Louis L’Amour believes there will come a time when you believe everything is finished.  That will be the beginning.  Let’s hold to this hope. 

Look to the bud – its fierce return to triumph from winter’s unforgiving contempt.   Now peering through the lattice in confident glory …

© 2011 Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

 I stand at oceans edge and watch emerald waters twirl and twizzle about my ankles, sun reflecting in oceans froth and current.  To begin the usual treasure hunt in search of well-tailored nuggets tumbled against coral reefs and thrust to the shore.  My fingers lift a ruffled shell imbedded mostly in wet sand to inspect.  What was once in pristine order now bludgeoned by a rocky tidal blender is left quit broken.  Disheveled edges rough and windswept grinded smooth from lashes on stone and grit.  Churned and thumped about in a sea rambunctious until spewed to the sandy threshold for examination – most usually to be rejected and pitched back.

 This time I’m drawn to the broken and tattered shells – to marvel in the excellence cloaked beneath sun-scorched and porous mantle.  I ponder on the wholeness of each before shattered and cast aside.  The tiny life once scampering within the sheath to complete its journey to this shore.  I pluck dozens of damaged shells from the surf until arms and hands and pockets brim full.  And then to survey my bounty I place them down on a beach towel stretched out long.  Each carefully arranged for closer scrutiny -  distinctively lovely and elusive until I no longer cast the gaze on brokenness but rather raw and unspeakable beauty.  As an evening sun illuminates off glistening fissures and ridges the eye can see angles and slants folding, funneling to form a host of angels wings.  I love my broken shells as each beckons to be seen for that which remains – triumph.  A jubilation of sorts for surviving even in part the voyage of a restless and raging sea.

 Like us all. Crafted to wholeness yet at times thrashed about a current rocky, thumping at the soul like a sneaker in the dryer.  Flailing through storms raging only to be spit out as damaged goods.  And still these storms are consistent threads imbedded deep to the fabric of growth and authentic beauty.  These times provide our greatest searching to seek out exquisite and resilient places that dwell within.  Discovery of what endures the uproarious splashing and thrashing deeming to drag us asunder.

 Have you ever been thrown to a stormy blender and hurled at the shoreline feeling lifeless and fragmented – damaged goods?  Almost six years past, the emotional smashing from a broken marriage of many years found me very much shattered and disjointed in spirit. The storm lashed and flogged my reasoning to view only the rubble of devastated lives strewn in its wake.  Nice, God-fearing girls do not divorce where I come from.  Dark Night of the Soul says author Madame Guyon from the 1700’s – the hard curveballs of life that throw us off our game and into despair.  Yet as a small child, we wobble up on feet aquiver to place one tiny step before the other in declaration that brokenness does not get the final word.   

 We cannot crown brokenness the victor over our lives. The agonies of heartache seek to foster weakness – but truth and conviction smash the boarders of the deepest fears and frailty. Rough edges become smooth by the often painful grind of self-reflection and introspection.  When spat from the belly of grief a life will change – to better or bitter. This choice bequeathed to the heart.  In forgiveness and faith feet stand secure on life’s shore unashamed – for it is shame that lashes out to destroy. 

 My broken shells do not look as they once did. Each has taken on new shape and purpose.  Today they are inspiration taken to flight on angel’s wings, a constant reminder that broken things and people are not to be discarded.  But resilient the human spirit – to be mended and released to soar uninhabited in newness of life.

Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

 This purpose – individual as a fingerprint casts exclusively as your impression upon the world.  To move toward it is to uncover lush the wild iris blossom where weeds once tangled the feet.  And its nemesis swashing the mind into oceans of failure is mediocrity – where we all but flounder when resigned to accepting the average as excellence and aloofness of life as vibrant existence.

 To disentomb the je ne sais quoi of authentic purpose we first separate falling on ones behind with being mediocre.  Falling and failing are intrinsic to doing.  The peril far more disconcerting is in the not-doing – not trying – not caring.  Extending hands and hearts to a task is to see fruition of good work set in motion and realize true gratitude – a paying it forward with desire to do for others beyond excess of our own gifts.  To squelch mediocrity at the starting line.  “We measure ourselves by many standards,” said William James, nearly a century ago. “Our strength and our intelligence, our wealth and even our good luck are things which warm our heart and make us feel a match of life.  But deeper than all such things, and able to suffice unto itself without them, is the sense of the amount of effort which we can put forth.”

 Purpose is the heart driven passion for seeking to invest a part of yourself into the lives of others.  Not about rank, prestige or income status but evolving into the man or woman we would desire as a companion – raising the bar and requiring more of self.  So rhythmic beats the drum deep within human spirit to chase after quality and merit.  To fight the adversary of apathy who paralyzes the soul with a life satisfied with status quo. We stomp the neck of mediocrity to exercise the assertive voice to action in leaving our sphere of life improved in some way.

 Such is the story of young Pollyanna, whose father taught her to play the Glad Game.  Though to many the tale ekes of foolish, blind optimism, Eleanor Hodgman Porter’s novel is intended to help people remain glad in heart for what they do have, even in the face of great hardship.  As children cleave to fondest memories, a lonely orphaned Pollyanna held tight to her father’s remembrance by telling others about the game they played.  Lives were changed.  In not keeping the Glad Game to herself an entire town became less selfish and more loving as her fingerprints brushed soft against the many hearts.

 There will always be occasion to contribute to the lives of others and put excellence to action; teaching a child, voice for the homeless, scout leader, of faith and hope, lend the caring ear – babe at the breast.  Fleeting are these moments of time chosen as the ones to leave our print.   Refuse to be satisfied with mediocrity.  Not unlike the miracle of falling in love, few emotions compare to opening wide the heart and hands to make better a small slice of the place we call home – planet earth.

 “Man is not born to solve the problems of the universe, but to find out what he has to do… within the limits of his comprehension.”     Johann Wolfgang von Gerthe

© 2011,Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

 

© 2011 photo heidi heath-garwood  ~  Were we to silence the clang that echoes in the ear long enough to receive so faint a melody sweet of yesteryear – soft raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, wispy snowflakes that catch at eyelash and nose.  These magical packages tied up in strings, most surely a few of our favorite things.  Perfumed bouquets of twinklings that expand the soul wild in abandon are joyous moments like these.  And to capture gifts abundant is to dine at the bounty laid at our feet – seizing all moments as they are – treasures interlaced into the conscious thought stored to revisit. 

 These are the empty spaces so easily missed.  But name the moment rich and robust and the gaps overflow into celebration.  Scribble down threads of time almost transparent like billowing scent of lavender candle soothing the senses – discover the gift.  Journal the musty smell of soil from fresh rainfall – connects us to mother earth.   Scribe soft warm breeze on a crisp morning – invigorates and awakens the spirit.  Snippets of time to treasure.  Surrounds our every moment splendidly and quickly transient at the speed of life.  

 Ann Voskamp stretches herself to discover such riches in her superbly written book One Thousand Gifts.  A must read where the author serves up such rich portions of joy, the soul will feast until fully satisfied.  We brush against treasures rare yet pass them by with pace a crazed.  And in our haste we miss not only the unearthed nugget but what entwines the heart when we give thanks for a simple but exquisite gift  -  the joy.  Joy lives in the calling forth. – aromatic bouquet of the heart.

 This, from my favorite poet, so lovely paints moments captured and tucked to the pocket of the soul for remembrance and gratitude ….

 Mr. Dragonfly

 Come I distant and weary,

Parched sun baked scramble,

Shale rock trail scaled sliding bleary,

Caught hither tattered by bramble,

 Upon windy trail dotted with berry,

Tottered I dusty and spent,

No mule had I for pack to carry,

Boulders bounding below I sent,

 Small creatures scattering about,

Shaking fur and feathers in rant,

Though beware I did shout,

Onward and upward I pant,

 Blessed downward striding delight,

Through tall pine stands,

Shaded from scorching sunlit blight,

Beauteous tall giants so grand,

 Amidst slow brambling brooks,

A challenge barked by banty pine squirrel,

I dare not slow and look,

Lest greater scolding rodent will hurl,

 Whitetail deer startled to stare,

Quickly did spin and lofty bound,

White flag of warning shared,

With parting snort for others around,

 Dipped I down to deep sweet spring,

Cool clear water quenches me,

To wade brook so refreshing,

Soft breeze shimmers aspen leaves,

 Striking forth with vigor anew,

Musty smell of dust from distant rain,

Upon breeze so fresh and true,

For most beautiful sight I give pause and refrain,

 Beyond to bright flowery sunlit meadow,

Bluebells and buttercups abundant as posing,

As field lark struts to reach song filled crescendo,

All about honey bee’s bumping and buzzing,

 Dragonfly lost from some distant lake,

Lights upon my walking stick,

As if partnership he desires to partake,

Gossamer wings transparent and quick,

 Mr. Dragonfly, please lead the way,

As if on cue up he does fly,

Circling about and close he does stay,

Several times passing me by,

 Soft rain tickles my skin,

As distant rainbow catches sun rays,

Resting hill to hill heavenly bridge,

Sir Dragonfly dances and keeps it at bay,

 Alas, arch of color moves on,

Pot of gold soon out of reach,

Too fast for even a leprechaun,

As sunrays pierce clouds in a beam,

 Corpuscular fire lights up a tree,

Tis a mighty giant glorious and bright,

Mr. Dragonfly, come and see,

Here is the tree of life,

 Once again dragonfly does light,

Turning his head up at me,

Transparent shimmering wings a delight,

Surely it is a smile I see,

 Never will they believe,

This most beautiful sight,

Being shared with me,

And my friend, Mr. Dragonfly.

  Christopher J Hope© 2011

© 2011,Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

Aerobic Hecklers come in a wide variety: The Flapping Birds, The Grasshoppers, The Peacocks, The Racehorses and The Hot Doggers.

The Flapping Birds are the most common.  They wave their arms incessantly like they are attempting to take flight for the first time.

The Grasshoppers add an extra hop or ball-change to every single step.  They usually just like the fun feel of it. 

The Peacocks have taken someone else’s class and they either have unbreakable steel-like neuro-muscular pathways or they just have a preference for the other instructor’s variation of a move.  Instead of actually challenging their brain to learn your version, they just do what they already know.  At times it can feel like they are suggesting that you adapt your version to theirs.  This can be especially annoying when you know that where you’re going with a move will leave them on the wrong foot - something I secretly enjoy.  This category also includes the Struttin’ Peacock who just launches into their own or someone else’s complete choreography collection.  Way beyond mere modification, their stuff totally differs from what you are trying to teach.  The seem to be in your class only to borrow your music for an hour.

The Racehorses are amazingly proficient at moving a half-beat faster than you and the music.  You somehow know it’s not that they can’t find the beat.  It appears to be an effort to suggest that you need to pick up the pace.  Actual horse blinders would fail to block them from your peripheral vision.

Hot Doggers are a mixed breed of some or all of the above, and they mostly appear when you are subbing for another popular instructor.  You just can’t teach these dogs new tricks - they already know it all.  Everything about them screams “I’m so much better than you!” and they are willing to pull out all their best stops to demonstrate the fact.  They are hard to ignore because, like the Struttin’ Peacocks, they typically like to perform for all to see, usually smack-dab in the middle of the front row.  But they differ from them because they’re not just doing their own thing, they’re trying hard to tell you to do their thing too!

How To Deal with Aerobic Hecklers

To maintain a position of authority with most heckling breeds, I usually choose first to ‘give’ them permission to modify.  Flapping arms and hopping ball-changes are relatively small modifications that participants use to add a little something extra to their own workout.  Even though you may not deem such extras as necessary and, for as much as you may be concerned for their tendons and ligaments in the long run, I say let them have at it.  If they later complain about little aches and pains of the shoulders and feet… bingo!  You’ve got an answer!

As for The Peacocks, I do give them permission as well, but I like to make some kind of point about the brain benefits of establishing new pathways.  Doing a class with moves you already know is like doing the exact same crossword puzzle every Sunday.  You can do it fast and efficiently - with little to no effort - but it’ not going to expand your vocabulary. I’ve decided that this breed just hates the discomfort of learning something new.  You’ll typically see this occur with uber-fit people who are new to you – your cuing, terminology and choreography - in which case, I like to remind everyone that if you’re not messing up, you’re not learning anything new.

The Struttin’ Peacocks can be a different story – especially if they are a ‘regular’ who struts their stuff in the front row. If they are totally doing their own thing, not following the general directional movement of the class, it can present a safety hazzard for those nearby.  Additionally, the people who are behind them have difficulty following because this person can be quite the distraction.  It is best to talk to repeat offenders after class and explain that modification to a degree is okay, but their over-modifications distract others who are trying to follow your instructions.  Most cognizant people would know to take doing their own thing to the very back of the room, but you may need to show them where the back row is where they can spin less obtrusively. If they still present a hazzard to those surrounding them, then address the issue from a safety standpoint and explain the importance of moving directionally with the rest of the group to avoid collisions with neighbors.

Racehorses – Do your best to simply ignore them, unless they become consistent offenders and you’re sure they are not just beat challenged. Speed is the main thing you control and even if they are insisting that you’re too slow, your responsibility is to the entire class.   Chances are they will find another class.

Handling a Hot Dogger takes some serious skill.  First, check to make sure that you are not projecting your own insecurity onto them. Second, resist the temptation to say “You think you can do a better job teaching?”  In stand up comedy, the profession that birthed the heckler,  it’s a golden rule to never, ever give up the microphone.  No matter how tempted, you must resist because it will be a disaster.  You might think that calling them to task is the way to put them in their place, but a proficient follower does not necessarily an instructor make.  Your job is to teach the class and turning it over to someone else is not what your participants showed up for – they are there for your class, not someone else who may or may not be able to teach.  But let’s say they actually can teach… then what?  Either way, it’s lose - lose.

The best way to handle it, if you can’t ignore it, is to first give them what they want – attention!  Yes, you heard me right…  say something nice or complimentary. If you just can’t summon up something to say, then recheck your own insecurities.  Truth is, saying something positive is not giving up your authority, it serves to reinforce it. 

Choose Your Battles Wisely

When faced with outright defiance, you can choose to ignore or choose to correct.  If you assess that the acts present immediate danger to either the partcipant or to those around them, you need to correct.  Some people may actually be able to keep up with 3 risers on their step, but if you know that your music and choreography combined with excessive height equals a wreck waiting to happen, then say something. 

If unsure, start with a general correction directed at everyone – state the level of complexity and the speed of your music and suggest that one may need to adjust their step height if they can’t execute the patterns with control.  As you proceed, if the participant missed the message and you feel that imminent danger calls for a direct correction, start with a compliment (Wow, You Are Really Fit), state the correction (The Speed and Complexity Combined with Step Height is Compromising Your Form) and then finish with a compliment (Which I Noticed Your Fine Technique During The Warm-Up).  Surrounding a correction with compliments helps to diffuse what can feel like an attack that puts the person on the defensive.  Confrontation tends to make everyone, including others in the class, awkwardly uncomfortable. 

When your concern is that of potential injury over time and the participant ignores general corrections, you may need to give them a pass on the first couple of classes - let them off easy with just a warning (general correction) rather than giving them a ticket (direct correction).  If they come back and still don’t get the message, you can go with the ticket, but with repeat offenders, if at all possible, talk to them one on one before or after class.

In stand up comedy, the pros carefully craft one-liners to throw out to hecklers – they may sound ‘off the cuff’, but the truth is they have an arsenal of snappy comebacks.  All they are doing is pulling up the line that fits the situation.  Aerobic professionals can learn to handle aerobic hecklers the same way by building their own arsenal of positive niceties and succint corrections to dish out wisely as needed.  While the comedian’s goal is to make everyone laugh – often at the expense of the heckler – your’s is to host the party and make everyone feel comfortable – keeping in mind that the ultimate goal is for all of them to want to come back.

The reflection from the looking glass speaks a story – not of the exterior only, but beyond the pupils into the soul.  Where to focus but on tiny steps stirring forward in constant search of authentic self, only to leap ten giant steps back when the marker advances in the blame game. 

A subtle one this game of blame, leaving control of our lives up for grabs.  Far-reaching are the tentacles that assign failure to things and people only to smother our own prospect for self-improvement.  But to recognize truth and fact is to grow character.  Can body type be blamed for unhappiness?  To view fact, some people gain weight easier than others, so we adjust accordingly.  Does the negative prattle of a friend dear drag you to misery’s threshold?  Though kindness is forever in style, the decision to expose your mind to a diet of destructive chatter belongs to you alone.

When sifting ourselves into the mix, blame is replaced with personal growth.  “ Aunt Martha may drive me a bit buggy, but I choose to be a part of her life.”  No blaming.  “My father was angry and abusive, that’s why I’m seeking help.”   Recognizing our contribution to a situation without the slinging of mud.   To ignore the measure in which we engage begets the pecking away – of peace and harmony to the soul.   Does someone come to mind who consistently calls the world into accountability for their misfortune?  Always another to blame for their lot in life – are they happy – prosperous?

It is the owning-up that frees us to place the foot solidly on more fertile soil.  Futile is the goal to remold others to our liking.  And not a great formula for personal happiness. Change the person in the mirror – this is a good thing.  Carelessness of others will bring frustration, even deeds that crush the heart; still, to place the foot steady forward we must close the blame game.  Truly we ask, is there anything to win?  Does it edify to convince others how blameless we are? 

When tempted to hurl fault for a bungled opportunity or lousy experience, two things can keep the head level; a lesson learned and owning our part.  Wagging the finger has potential to deflates and de-motivate.  After all, why not give up if control of the outcome has been tossed to the wind?  But take responsibility and expect the unexpected.  Who knows, maybe the storm didn’t rain on your parade after all – you just needed a back-up plan.

I love how John Burroughs sums it up; a man can fail many times, but he isn’t a failure until he begins to blame somebody else.

Consistently passing the buck can stem from a sense of unimportance possibly rooted in ill-fated childhood experiences.  However, at some point we drive the heels of responsibility for our actions to the pavement and force blame to a screeching halt.  Refuse to see the image of a victim staring back at you.  Like a pebble to the well, pity fades to darkness while life thirsty to be lived.  Today, no more jaded perception of the face in the mirror – no blaming.  Not for what we possess or lack.  Nor for what has been achieved or lost along journey’s way.  Who of us cannot raise the glass to Michael Jackson’s lyrics …

 I’m Starting With The Man In
The Mirror
I’m Asking Him To Change
His Ways
And No Message Could Have
Been Any Clearer
If You Wanna Make The World
A Better Place
Take A Look At Yourself, And
Then Make A Change

© 2011, Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

 Where do you go to touch the earthen floor?  To feel light wrapped in sunbeams filtered through pine limbs that warm the face.  Escape the crazy of life to inhale the fragrant smells of moss on trees and wild honeysuckle sweet.  As the moon marks off the seasons, so must we seek revered moments where invigorating springs gush through the parched ravines of the soul to refresh again.

 Shackled to the constant flurry of hurry to do, shuttle there, grab more, move hands and feet at brisk tempo  – hectic rush.  And strive to live in a moment and sip from the succulence of here and now while the ticking of the clock moves us forward with dependable cadence – seconds to days, into years.  There is no stopping this rhythm from cradle to grave.  Our greatest asset lies between the two – time. 

 Still the heart pounds tempo like a thunderous stampede of Running of the Bulls to make even more haste until feet are slammed to the brakes.  My mom writes in journals now for over 35 years.  At days end when the sun says good night her pen scratches to paper how time was spent.  Then she reads the same days moments scribbled one year before to compare – keeping track of time.  Silent reflection and thanks for moments summoned up.  The journal gives witness to these memories.  To quiet the mind as syllables and thoughts leak from heart through fingertips.  Brings harmony within the soul.

 Like nature.  Fresh aroma of moist, cool soil following a spring shower awakens and titillates the senses.  Cobwebs swept from thoughts as billowing wind whistles through outstretched fingerstips.  When the spirit cries for peace, nature will not deceive.  To find wilderness is to find sacred space in the universe that warms the heart and bestows lessons of wild love, not chastened but charmed into us.

 We should turn, then, to Nature, says poet and essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-82).  Nature love as Emerson knew it.  “You are dealing with things at first hand, and you get a rule, a standard, that serves you though life.  You are dealing with primal sanities, primal honesties, primal attraction; you are touching at least the hem of the garment with which the infinite is clothed.”

 The spirit craves refreshment from sweet waters of such raw and passionate elements the earth alone offers.  Wisps of delicate plants dance on sandstone cliffs – this is devotional art.  Refuge for a twinkling to breathe deep into lunges all the bounty tossed high from the apron of mother earth.  Natural beauty ministers healing and strength – serene vision of peace – moments quiet and delicate.

 The tick of the clock will be forever constant.  We have time to spend – in haste or seeking peace.  Look to the hills from which comes our strength.  William O. Douglas, said that “to be in tune with the universe is the whole secret.”

© 2011, Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

Hope.  Without which the heart is denied refreshment.  It thirsts for hope like desert parched and dry.  To know there is great purpose in life – in your life.  The one voice of conviction and truth greater than any beckons to thread our hearts to this reality.  Every breath and beat of the heart; the pulsing of blood in and out of veins weave moments together whisking us from sorrows to hope again.  Who can know why we endure grief to overflowing except to reveal the luster of unshakable hope at journeys end.  Hope somehow filters through the cracks to mend up our broken places once we cry out for rescue.  Out loud and on purpose.

The glow of hope cupped near the heart of our mind’s eye – so deliberate, yet shakable. Fragile, perceptible, life-giving hope.  Believe and hold firm that affirmative thought of what you wish to achieve.  Replacing each negative with the glorious positive as weakness transfigures to strength and despair to hope.  Not in the waiting, but the doing as hope becomes verb; movement within the soul.  Search for it with all your heart and it shall be found …

Hopelessness seeks only to immobilize and though the solution may not come without persistence and grit – we press in and move forward.  Answers may not come when hardship nips at the heels of life, yet hope shall forever bolster the human spirit to rise above - to sustain.

With no place but the army’s oath, an angry young man of eighteen escaped the heated words and violence of a Stepfather to carve his way in the world.  Four years later, Arthur returned home to find his girl engaged and family indifferent to his accomplishments.  His closest companion was found in a bottle.  The drink bolstered self-confidence and a knack for losing pain – it also brought addiction.  Like a train derailed, even the love of a wife and daughter could not divert Arthur’s destruction.  Twenty-five years wrapping fingers around the flask left him penniless with relationships splintered beyond repair.  Was it even possible for these tired bones to rise up and dance out of so great a valley of destruction?   Feet shaken and weary, he planted his steps toward hope. The knot burned in his throat as he screamed, “If you’re anywhere to be found God, please help me.”  Arthur says a miracle happened that night as slivers of hope seeped into the black of his world   Hope in courage to confront and refuse a toxic potion that for him reaped destruction.  Ten years past this good man remains sober with life’s passion to offer hope to others.

Can we not all give account of hope in our lives?   We wrestle with our own humanity and circumstances only to find slices of light peering through the cracks in the walls of our soul, warming the rustic floorboard of the heart.  Hope.  Drink in plenty for yourself and offer a cup to others.  It seeps into our pores as the sun’s warmth and lightly brushes the skin like a spring breeze.  It is in the laughter and standing arm in arm with others.  It is watching a broken life transformed and healed to begin renewed.

 “Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.”  Dale Carnegie

© 2011, Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

Playing to a packed house with the coveted honor of serenading viewers with his solo rendition of “I’ve Got Hair,” was a dream come true. Tonight the pieces were finally in place, except for his wig.  Once he hit the stage, each note belted in perfect pitch as the adrenaline rush caused Napoleon to overcompensate, morphing fully into character.  But the intoxication of crowd and music and a fleeting whirl of his neck sent the billowy head-dress to fight with an arch trajectory over the orchestra and into the lap of a guy in the front row.  For Napoleon, everything cranked back to slow motion as he continued crooning “I’ve Got Hair,” with in fact no hair at all, but the bald cap suctioned to his crown.  The audience was brought to their knees in hilarity as he beckoned the fellow to toss this vital part of his costume back to the stage. The pleas went unnoticed by the gent too reckless with laughter.  Although the performance was memorable, for Napoleon it felt disastrous and the end of his stage career. 

Disappointment comes as an unwelcome companion that drapes its weight over our shoulders like grandmas heavy quilt.  And yet we find truth in the adage of what does not kill us will ultimately make us stronger.  Who has been untouched by the sting and embarrassment of being deserted when the curtain goes up only to feel uncovered and vulnerable?   As we play out our lives on the real stage of life things will not always unfold as planned.  And rehearse for perfection as we may, the unexpected can always jolt us from a place of security. 

In her book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice For Difficult Times, Pema Chodron states so poignantly, “Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”  Like having everything shaken from within that can be shaken, until that which cannot be shaken remains.  And what remains becomes our greatest strength. 

We are created to be a resilient people and while we must accept finite disappointment, may we never lose hope.  Adversity compels us to reach out to others in our times of struggle, which helps us realize that life is not a solo performance in the first place, but one to be enjoyed in relationships. 

 Difficulty also beckons our search for a deeper meaning to life in exploration of the totality of our being; mind, body and spirit.   Napoleon thought he needed that big ole wig to complete the task set before him.  What he found was a faith bigger than any prop could provide; strength of spirit that would not allow his voice to be stolen.   In adverse times, others may not see our need just as the gent clutching his wig, but the love and acceptance from a Higher Power can bring fresh perspective and put a new song in our heart.  This love helps to honor self-worth when optimism fades and the frame sludges to slow-mo with a whisper to the soul that things are bound to get better.

 I met Napoleon years after this experience while attending his dance class taught to a massive crowd of hoofers.  Like a sunbeam splashing into the room, he sang and danced us all into a puddle of euphoric sweat.  The person who lifted his wig had not stolen his song, although he felt it all but destroyed on that opening night.  In retrospect, he learned how to anticipate obstacles to better overcome. With or without all that you expect or require, the show will go on.

 We take the pain of these situations and learn, though avoiding may appear a much better option.  Alas, suffering becomes a friend at long last when we gather the succulent fruit of experience and knowledge and perhaps a resource for some hilarious tale.   

 This blog dedicated in loving memory of our dear friend Napoleon Robertson.

© 2011, Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com

It would be impossible not to be affected by the catastrophic events of the past few days in Japan.  The images depicting complete homes and cars washed out to sea by the tsunami, savaging families to be left without the simple necessities of life.  At Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta, tormented onlookers waited in anguish to catch a glimpse of their loved one disembarking the plane that flew over the great city as the 8.9-magnitiude earthquake, most powerful in the country’s recorded history, convulsed and jolted the earth below.  

Life is fragile, knit loosly with vagueness and uncertainty.  To witness such devastation causes us to reevaluate the perspective of our own lives.  Moments before the ground rumbled and snarled, fathers where separated from daughters and brothers not speaking; mothers in angst over a child’s shoddy decision and children angry at parents.  Such is human nature.  The heart gets bruised and stockades erect between people to protect from further pain.  But the walls fabricated in our most precious relationships usually end up causing us more heartache.

My son PJ always says, “You have to have your very worst days so you can have your very best days.”  I agree.  If he has an awful day, he tells me that now he’ll be able to appreciate his next wonderful day even more.   

Most of our worst days will not compare to what Japan has just experienced.  And to connect with these people who share like desires and dreams for their families and themselves cause our hearts to react; by sending thoughts and prayers to the afflicted who walk out this horrific monstrosity and extending finances or supplies to help rebuild broken lives, if possible.  But, we can also react by taking personal inventory of ourselves … surveying the barriers around our own hearts that should be shaken to the ground.

Do you have family members not communicating with one another for fear of picking up the phone and facing rejection?  Perhaps someone has let you down and is seeking forgiveness?  Is there a loved one that deserves an apology but pride wedged sideways in the throat is too big to swallow, or the sun went down on anger so many times the right words seem illusive?  Yet crisis has a way of pulling people together, helping overcome hardship and even finding the words that seem to have tangled the tongue.  Such is the dialouge that cause a fortress surrounding hearts to collapse.

But it should not take a tragedy.   We have a screaming testimony set before us by looking into the eyes of the grief stricken people of Japan to do what we can to bring the walls down between ourselves and those we love.  It’s never too late until separated by the grave.   

In the lyrics of his hit song, Live Like You Were Dyin’, Tim McGraw, sums up these thoughts about a man being given a short time to live:

“And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
“And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.”
An’ he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
“To live like you were dyin’.”

Yes, today truly is a gift.  Go share it with someone you love ~

© 2011, Pam Staver-Hope. http://pamstaver-hope.icopyright.com