Leisa A. Hammett

Random Thoughts on Autism Awareness Month, 2015

Funny how time renders perspective. Even a different way of looking at things once held as definitive truth and "the way." The "right" way. I now get it. I totally get why that older mom was so miffed and would mouth off against research versus where rubber meets the road. Like where her son was living and what he was needing at the time....You see, we kind of created this crisis we are in nationally. Research? Out the wa-zoo for causes, genes, intervention therapies for tne newly diagnosed. But end road? Crickets. Almost nada. I understand the need for research. I'm not damning it. But, it's time to wake up and shift our perspectives to the crisis that's here at the opposite end of the age spectrum. We've grown up, people.  

***

I'm all about happy stories and happy endings. I believe our life with autism, overall, is a happy story. Even a success story, though one filled with a lot of sweat dripping from the brow. But hearing about how this family or this group found employment, saying things like there is hope for this ginormous group, the majority of whom are marching toward a cliff with no safety net of services, doesn't get it. What onlookers to all the media coverage our community has received this month are missing is the big picture. Just how overwhelmingly many of us are in this same boat. And, that there's many paddles needed to propel the vessel forward: Employment. Community. Shelter. Caregiving. Hurray for the mothers and fathers and organizations that have found employment solutions. No facetiousness here. So have we, in part. It's the shelter part. Where are we going to live? Check, got that, fortunately. But 24/7 care if Mom wants to go back to work and earn some bucks for retirement and do something besides caregiving? Or, when she dies, who will take her place? Big picture, people. It's more than about happy employment stories. It's about the silver tsunami of caregiving. 

***

Stop. Comparing. We must, people. Yes, the Joneses have more money. Yes, that state has better services. Yes, that son or daughter got better intervention, is higher functioning, and on, ad nauseum. As a wealthy friend once told me square on, despite all that she could afford for her offspring, at the end of the day, they still had autism. I am reminded to be grateful for what I have and to remember how others struggle and that we each live in our parallel universes of pain. And joy. That simple. Is what is. No comparison of good, better, worse. Comparison divides us. We need the unites-us glue. Our unity is within our diversity. We are all living with autism. 

***

It's not just this generation of known increased incidence. Autism has been with us at least since the Middle Ages. (That is the first suspected historical record.) It's just gotten more prominent. Please leave home theories of sugar and poor diet and overgrown nose hairs as the cause for everyone's autism. Whatever the cause, (and there are many,) it's here. It's been here. And there's hundreds of thousands of other families and loved ones living with other forms of disAbilty, too. I regret autism dominates the conversation. Our incidence rate is the impetus.  All disAbilities matter. Everyone is struggling. All of us need to be heard. 

***

Lastly: Choice. It's the kicker. The biggie. The one our Western mindset hears and then plugs its ears and runs screaming. For the last two Aprils, I'd thought I'd detected a shift in our community perspective. We were no longer labeling autism the beast who stole our child in the dark of night. Reading some of the blogs out there this month, I'm no longer sure about that shift. Still, through websites and Facebook groups such as "The Gifts of Autism," there is an underground rising and swelling of recognition that there's more than just a label to this "disorder." Yes, the challenges of autism in our neurotypical world are very real. But maybe there is something more, and that the incidence has increased from whatever causative factors for reasons beyond our human physical body comprehension. We need shift in culture, in our consciousness. Who but a challenged individual with autism to help one shift: Be in the moment. Teach unconditional love. Be color blind. It is our world, our neurotypical ways that hurl prejudices and intensify the struggle. Heretical to many are these things to say. But choice. Choice. Here you are. Here we are. Fight, wrestle, hate, mangle. Or, well, your son or daughter (or you) has autism. Where can the beauty in the difficulty be found? How can we see things differently? I don't know about you, but I don't want to fight life. Autism is here. I want to choose to embrace it for what it teaches me, how it stretches me. It is, after all, my teacher. My teacher is of grace. She teaches me grace. And, her name is Grace. Can you find your grace? #choice

If you enjoyed/agree with this post, will you share it in your preferred social media network(s), please? I thank you. 

The Silver Tsunami & #AutismPost21Crisis

In our nearly two-decades-old, small, local meet-up group of moms with sons and daughters who have disAbilities, (plus a dad or two, and a few friends who work on behalf of our community,) we call her the queen. Not just any queen, but the Queen Mother. Or, since she's opposed to the use of caps: queen mother. Our group is The Mothers from Hell (and Friends). I wrote about us here.  

holly lu connant rees is referred to as the queen mother for many reasons, not the least of these is her leadership in disAbility (caps, mine,) advocacy, and her knife-sharp wit and ability to hammer a point with precision. So, I leave the rest of this post to quoting her during this busy national autism awareness month with many art events for my soon-to-be 21-year-old artist daughter with autism. My mind is overloaded with ideas to write about and little time to put them here. Thoughts are on high gear as we march to the perilous precipice of age 21, and one year closer to the black abyss of services post public school. I am  writing about much of this via public posts on my personal Facebook page. 

Here's holly lu, in her wonderful and unique form of punctuation, without editing from me: 

"we are seeing the coming of age of adults who were very premature &/or very sick babies, who wouldn't have survived in previous generations. 1 of the most drastic circumstances we face is the upwards of 850,000 people with I/DD whose caregivers are over 60. some of the folks may have bucked the medical 'wisdom' of the time, & kept their son/daughter/sister/brother home rather than institutionalizing them--& are still on waiting lists, if they've even qualified for waiver services. there are also many grandparents who are raising their children's children due to substance abuse/extreme poverty/mental illness which may have caused DD in the kids.

"i was going to add the caveat that I don't mean to sound so grim--but in fact there's no choice. the aging of baby boomers has been described as a 'silver tsunami'--the implications for the disability community are profound.  

"i'm certainly an example of what I prefer to call the "grinder generation" (b/c it's a more evocative term than "sandwich" & b/c that's the right name for subs in CT)--32 y.o. son w/disabilities, caring for my 94 y.o. mother, beginning to deal w/the wear & tear of aging upon my own little frame."

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[Me] Here in Tennessee, our legislators continue their hillbilly who-ha shenanigans to pass laws allowing guns in parks, making the Bible the official book of Tennessee, all while refusing the Governor's last ditch efforts to insure hundreds of thousands of Tennesseeans without health coverage and...here it is: once again, debating whether or not to fund the sons and daughters of parents aged 80 and over to roll off the medicaid waiver list for intellectual and developmental disAbilities. As I've written here before, I'm not planning to wait 25 more years if and when justice will be served. 

Also, from an article entitled "What Will Happen When the School Bus Stops Coming," I learned these alarming statistics: 

Dr. Sheila Korn—a pediatrician interviewed about her son with autism noted—according to the article, that,  "residential services will become more important to their adult children when parents enter their retirement years. But waiting lists are long. As of 2012, more than 110,000 people with intellectual and developmental disabilities were on waiting lists for residential services across America; all needed housing services within a year. If you include people whose housing needs are less urgent, the number on waiting lists swells to 300,000, according to the Residential Information Systems Project at University of Minnesota."

Crisis, folks, and we've not crested yet:  #TheSilverTsunami #AutismPost21Crisis

On a more positive note, this year's Nashville Film Festival will feature "Learning to Dance in Ohio," about youths with autism preparing for their first formal dance. Show times are this Saturday and Thursday of next week. Click this link for more details. 

And then back to the issue at hand for so many of us: I was the first caller this morning on Tom Ashbrook's On Point Radio on NPR. Here's the link to the site. To locate and listen to the podcast, look for April 16, 2015, "Stark Realities of Autistic Adulthood." (I cried on National Public Radio.) It's been a difficult week. 

Taking Care of Children Means Taking Care of You

You matter. Of course you do. But somewhere in the course of parenting, self-care for moms and dads (especially moms) is often forgotten.

Here's the deal: You are the foundation of your family. If the foundation is not sturdy, how will you support your family's needs?

Many of us feel overwhelmed with our to-do lists: taking care of children; household chores; feeding the family; work demands; paying bills; taking care of the car or the yard or the family pet.

Facing all these daily pressures, it's easy to ignore our own needs. But if we don't take care of ourselves, eventually we can't take good care of our children, either. There are ways to work self-care into our busy days.  

Wanna read how? Join me over at Wishing Well, the blog of Monroe Carell Jr. Childrens's Hospital at Vanderbilt today where I share some ways that have helped me take care of me while taking care of my family. 

The Art of Spring Break: Exhibits, Travel, Presentation

Here, in Nashville, there's a muted silence in the air these chilly, crisp pre-spring days. I'm calling it in between time. The few intermittent days of warm, glorious sunshine brought the buzz of activity. Now, there's a hush in the air again. A slight heart-tugging anticipation.

It's spring break here. Kinda. Officially so for the next county over. Yet, Metro schools forced "intercession" and then took away three days of the break for snow make-up. I sent Grace on to her camp anyway. Next week she joins her father while I journey to the sweet respite of Hot Springs, NC, before treking back over the hills a way and presenting at my alma mater. More about that in a few. 

Spring here in Nashville is presenting some going-quick opportunities for marvelous art: 

Charles Brindley's third and largest exhibition yet at Cheekwood is a do not miss. Charles Brindley: Trees of  Myth and Legend, through April 19. I always pen his shows as must go's on the calendar and the graphite drawings and oil paintings of this master gentleman artist never, ever disappoint. I count this up there alongside a couple of my other favorite shows in the stately former mansion of the Maxwell House coffee founders, which would be the exhibitions of Andrew Wyeth. Brindley is genius and a true Tennessee treasure. And, an incredibly nice man. Bravo. I think my feature on him was my second ever story for NashvilleArts Magazine in my two years on staff of the original publication. Here's a blog post blurb I published on the artist more recently in 2011: Artist Brindley Distills Soul of Trees. 

Hurry downtown to that grand main branch of Nashville's Public Library for the brilliant public-curated exhibition of printmaker Bryce McCloud. For a year the artist set up small self-portrait-rubber-stamp printmaking stands around town. Old, young, homeless, refined, individuals with developmental disAbilities, and one Jack White, all got their visual art groove on. The result hanging in the large, open second-floor atrium is a spectrum of Nashville humanity, some shown holding their portraits, and also captured on moving and still film, and a 3-D mimicry of the stations where passerbys created their likes. The exhibition ends on April 12, and while there, step into the library's first floor gallery for a clever and somewhat disturbing commentary on our disposable culture in the exhibition “Paper, Thread and Trash: A Collection of Art Books Made From Reuse.” The show features some local heavy-hitters in paper arts, such as Lesley Patterson-Marx, plus three delightful large photographs and more of intriguing artist Kit Kite's commentaries on domestic life. Show ends March 29.

While I haven't yet made it to the Partnenon's unassuming gallery tucked beneath Alan LeQuire's grand Athena, I will before Dane Carder's War Wounds ends May 31. Carder is another gentleman artist. Quiet, soulful and expressing his artistry in an uncommon way as he paints, large-scale, slightly disturbing yet alluring interpretations of very old photographs. Included in this exhibition, are 13 paintings depicting the loss endured by Civil War soldiers and their families. 

I'll visit and patronize the wares of local artisans in Hot Springs and over in the wacky neighboring town of Marshall while I'll be embedded in the natural artistry of Western North Carolina's mountains next week. And, I'll conclude my own spring break with a presention at Carson Newman University's William Blevins Institute for Spirituality & Mental Health. Blevins, a former professor of mine three-plus decades back, invited me to speak Saturday morning, March 28, 10-11:30 on "The Grief Journey with Grace: Autism, Divorce, Death of Loved Ones, and Other Life Challenges."

In my presentation description, I write:  Life happens, and none of us are immune to some variation of challenge that requires us to move through grief to heal and live fully. Art and nature are two ways in which my spirit replenishes and heals. To travel and partake of good art in many of its forms~that's my definition of living fully. May you enjoy these exhibits if you are in Nashville, or embrace beauty wherever you are out and about on spring break or travel or daily living. Namaste.

 

 

 

The Inability to Run From Life: A Midlife Blogger's Perspective

We bonded during the last hour of the day. A panelist at the close of the first-ever conference for midlife bloggers asked the audience of 100 women if any of us found certain types of stories that resonated with their readers. I raised my hand. But, Cathy Chester, who writes about having Multiple Sclerosis, raised hers first. When it was my turn, I shared that in my seven years online, I believed I've always blogged authentically. But, when my daughter turned 16 and began approaching the perilous precipice of ending services that young adults with disAbilities reach (and fall off of) at age 22, I became angry. And I wrote about it. And it hit some nerves with other parents on the journey. I shared how my "Pining for an Empty Nest" blog post and reading for our local Listen to Your Mother performance stretched me to share my struggle and the resulting sense of resonance (and understanding) it brought. 

Following me, my new-found friend, Alicia Searcy, a fashion blogger who has cerebral palsy, shared some of her journey. (She's fashionable from her fuchsia-streaked hair to her leopard-print booties. Her blog title is a little insider slice of disAblity humor: "Spashionista.com."  About three more people followed us, and two of them shared about their online journeys with breast cancer. One of them, Claudia Schmidt, owns another fab titled blog: My Left Breast. As these clever blog names indicate, these women have learned to make lemonade. 

When the conference disbanded, I asked Alicia if she noticed that the first three of us who spoke were all living with disAbility. Yes, she'd noticed. She is a wise woman. Without pausing, she added to the wisdom she'd already gifted me from earlier in the day: "It's because we've not been able to run from life, Leisa." She looked me in the eye and added. "The rest of the people here probably have kinda been able to skirt it. A little. But we cannot." She gestured to her own visible disAbility. I thought of my daughter and how her obvious hyperactivity and lack of social inhibition and inability to carry on a conversation red flags her, as well. 

To be human is to face challenge. By no means am I saying that the challenges my daughter's autism presents me is any greater, more important, etc., than any other individual who lives with disAbility or not. We all dwell in our individual universes of experience. The takeaway for me was that each of us, plus the two women who wrote about breast cancer, found a sense of resonance in sharing from the tender spaces in our lives. 

That authenticity, that vulnerability, I think, resonates not only with people experiencing the same struggle, (autism, other disAbilities, cancer,) it echoes within the soft, aching, quiet places within us all. The parts that we may be too scared to share with others or think that we are the only ones who feel that way. I've said for more than a decade now since I've been chronicling my journey with autism here and my continued attempts to compile a morphing theme of my life lessons from Grace into another book, that grief is universal. It may be called something different in your life than mine. But few, if any of us, dodge it forever. 

Participating in Nashville's inaugural Listen to Your Mother was a lesson in the power of story. In stepping forward to a microphone; a computer with an index finger poised over the send button, or quietly sharing with another human being. We need each others' stories. It's what makes us human and what makes our humanity bearable. It is our connection. 

The BAM: Bloggers at Midlife Conference, and the sponsoring online Midlife Boulevard are a powerful channel of connection. Midlife women, many if not most of us Baby Boomers, have a voice about life after 40 and 50 and into our 60s. And I'm sure we'll be sharing our voices beyond that number. Because that's just it. It's not about numbers. And we refuse to be dismissed because Madison Avenue and Hollywood attempts to dictate where on the chronological scale of life matters. We are real women who have been through the trenches of parenting, marriages, divorces, early widowhood, disAbility, cancers, careers, etc. And we've got stories to share with you. 

Hello, Again, Fallen Snow Atop Epic Ice

Hello, again, beautiful fallen, Snow, piled atop epic Ice.

Hello, beautiful, quiet Earth. You ssshhh my mouth and mind chatter.

Hello, bulging-bellied birds perched and chirping cheeriness on the patio-garden dogwood.

Hello, warm, flannel jammies; fuzzy socks, and opportunity to give my dry, itchy skin a chance to bathe in its own moisture.

Hello, rest. Hello, home-bound projects. (At least I can dream they’ll get done.) 

Hello, blueberry waffles and pancakes, chili, stews, cornbread muffins, and steaming mugs of hot tea.

Hello, attitude. I know it is all about you, me, mine. Plans, oh, they have been made. Events scheduled, too. Money-making opportunities lost. For now. Soon, these will be distant memories blinded by the sunshine-warmth of a daffodil spring.

I can only change one thing. And that is how I feel about you. 

Hello, again, beautiful fallen Snow, piled atop epic Ice.

Ha. This is the Cliff Notes version to this post: Buddha & The Icepocalypse Revisted

Buddha & the Icepocalypse Revisited

Ready? Cue the eyeballs to roll. I'm sure some of my Facebook friends knew this blog post was coming. So, what does The Buddha have to do with the Icepocalypse, as we called Storm Octavia here in Nashville? And Pandora. And Thor....Opportunity, my friends. At least, that's how I experienced it. 

Oh, my. But the whining and the moaning and the groaning. Almost deafening. First it was the fact that the weather people messed up and we got ice, not snow. Then school was cancelled. And cancelled again. Cancelled all week. Am I inconvenienced? Did I have plans cancelled. Plenty. A special mother-daughter date for a once-a-year free salon visit on President's day. Grace was going to get her locks colored purple again. We were going to have mother-daughter pedicures Tuesday. I had a handyman scheduled. I've got a party planned on Saturday night and the guest of honor may not be able to land. Two special weekend dates for Grace are in question now, not to mention the Best Buddies prom. And, yes, a lot of work that was supposed to happen in the meantime hasn't gotten done. Plus, right now my attic ceiling is leaking. I stuck a bucket up there and I've called the roofing dude. He can't get up there until the ice on the roof melts. 

But what could I do about all the plans unmade during Icepocalypse 15? Here's my experiences of it: Wearing my pajamas because they are warm and comfortable. Giving my skin a break as it was itching like crazy from dryness all of the sudden last week. Read. Make good food: savory soups; buckwheat pancakes; egg dishes; muesli; chocolate muffins; peanut butter crackers; popcorn with salt, paper, herbs and olive oil; snow cream. Sip red wine. Organize the pantry. Tidy the house and mess it up again. Make art. Love on my daughter. (I have loved chilling with her this week.)

Back when we used to have more consistent winters, these traditions were the norm. Pancakes, waffles, muffins, and soups (albeit our annual winter staple,) were the norm for the snow days. So were the casual uniforms. 

Maybe I'm just an old crunchy mom. But I love the extra time with my daughter—even though I'm looking to move to another state in the next two years so I won't be her number one provider for the rest of my years. Children are a treasure. They're a gift. How many people want them and cannot? Twenty years of her life have flown by captured in a flash of memories of snow days.

We're in this predicament together. Deadlines are missed. Dates broken. Plans trashed. But where are the gifts?: Time to reflect. Putter. Give extra hugs. Make treats. Take walks. Get some things done around the house. 

What's the other alternative? Bitch. Moan. Make ourselves miserable doing the latter. Spread bad vibes. Fail to count the blessings that we have shelter, heat, clothing, and food, and a chance to slow down. 

What would the Buddha do?: Eh. What is is what is. We can't change the weather. Only, our attitudes about it. Accept it. Lean in. Give in. Surrender. Appreciate. Look for the lessons. Look for the gifts. Or fight it. 

Really, Icepocalypse is a microcosym of everyday life. When we chose to fight things that are beyond our control, we're setting up chemical camp inside our bodies to do harm. Being well is more than being physically fit and eating whole foods. It starts with our minds and how much rest, recreation, and relaxation we allow ourselves. Yeah, I'm still working on a number of these. 

Meantime: Chill. Ain't got nothing else to do. Peace fingers. 

I confess I conducted a little informal poll among a few friends before writing this post. Icepocalypse was a three-phase storm. Ice. Snow. And then snow again. When the snow finally came, I posted on my Facebook page "Alright whiney people. Here's your snow. Bundle up your children and send them out into it." I noticed sometime later that all the individuals who liked my post were either older, or had children with special needs,  or a connection to those who did. I'm not attempting to pit special needs families against families with typically developing children, but the folks I polled did suggest that maybe it was age and having to live with disAbility everyday that was beyond our control and knowing that we could surrender and work on things we could change or fight ourselves into bundles of misery.  

This small Buddha sits in my patio garden near my wooden gate. I'd like to say he reminds me to be centered. I thought he was handsome when I bought him on sale at TJMaxx. But mostly, I enjoy photographing images of him throughout the seasons. The ones fraught with unpleasant conditions and the ones more abundant in  beauty. Just like life. 

UPDATE: This post was originally written on day five of the first week of three weeks of significant winter storms here in Nashville. The Saturday evening party for an out-of-town guest was rescheduled for Monday night of the second week. The Best Buddies Prom happened on schedule, but school did not open again until Wednesday, and then it closed last Thursday. Reopened on Friday through yesterday, Wednesday, and now we've got snow and ice on the roads again while midlife bloggers for BAM, (Bloggers at Midlife,) the first ever blogging conference for bloggers of my age range (wOOT!) are in all stages of waiting, travel, anticipation for if this particular show can go on. Also at stake travel to meet up with Grace's father, and other commitments. We had a pop-up art sale scheduled this morning at Chico's Green Hills (haha) "Spring Event." What can I do? Surrender.  That snow is really pretty. I'm going to go play.

 

 

Storm Deposits Frigid Temps, Frozen Precip & Reminders of Oneness & Otherwise

Day two here in Nashville's worst ice storm in two decades. Area public schools are cancelled for the week as we thaw from phase one and brace for two and possibly three more hits of this epic winter event. Early afternoon Grace and I braved the roads and found them passable in our western hamlet. I watched as a slim, unshaved, casual and warmly dressed man crossed the road in front of me while I stopped at the red light. He looked like the sort that, any other day, would have a clean-shaven face and a white-starched collar, tie, and suit in place of his plaid, untucked shirt, and heavy winter sport jacket. I saw more such men meandering around a crowded Kroger grocery. The men seemed to be getting away with the scruffy look much more than the women folk. Myself included. And, yes, that's probably sexist to say. Maybe I just have a case of cabin fever—just Grace and I holed up in our 1,200-square foot condo. 

Navigating the produce, spice, and health food aisles, I ran into four friends and acquaintances in that old familiar "Nashville small-town feel in a decent sized city kind of way of living here." One of those four, I'd only met online. It was a face-to-face meeting and a reunion all at once. She surveyed my puffy orchid snowsuit and Grace and my matching purple fleece skullcaps, and complimented our wild choice of colors. None of us were our best selves, yet it mattered not. Like everyone else there, we were grabbing eggs and milk, arming ourselves for the next wave of the winter storm, and Noelle and I were glad to finally meet one another. 

I said to her, as we joked about our mismatched layers and bedhead hair, that really, this storm was showing us all our one-ness. She agreed. That nice looking man who crossed the street in front of my car, with a little dirt and a few holes in his coat, could have been one of the homeless people selling the local street paper. Maybe I could pass for a wacky bag lady on another day. Maybe that's a bit of a stretch, but what I was seeing was that social class was stripped right there in the chaos of Kroger. It felt good. 

And then we walked down the sidewalk into Starbucks. I treated Grace to a hot chocolate soymilk. The line was long and curved, and people silent while we waited. Heaven forbid anyone chitchat with a stranger. I placed Grace's order and made my way through the crowd of a coffee shop full of one person per table, their laptop paraphernalia taking up space in the chair opposite them and their devices. I directed Grace to sit at the only remaining armchair, which was catty corner to an attractive, nicely and casually dressed woman who practically rolled her eyeballs at me when I smiled at her. It was not the first deflection in the shop. I did the same with the pretty young woman with the black leggings, black boots, long navy sweater and neat, long, black ponytail. Nothing but a cold stare back. 

Perhaps I was/am the homeless bag lady. I and my ridiculously colored purple snowsuit and striped hat and face stripped of makeup. Grace with a pair of my old fleece pants, too short over a pair of snow boots. (They were Coach brand. Not that I cared or that I cared if anyone else cared. TJ Maxx special. We liked their price, wild colors, and the warm fleece lining.) The confines of Starbucks, on this day, were vividly different than the scruffy necessities-grabbing patrons of Kroger. No, I was reminded, this is the new Nashville now. These folks had their shit together. No mismatched over-puffy layer-wear. These folks were serious. I shoulda known the down-home, we-are-in-this-together-vibe was about to change when I approached Starbucks and passed an uber-tall, skinny legged young woman with cream-colored cashmere leg-warmers casually scrunched up just above her knee caps and a pair of handsome lace up-booties on her feet as she stepped off the sidewalk to navigate a sunny parking lot of frozen chunks of dirty ice and pools of water. 

I left pondering this about the influx of strangers who have come to my town, lured by the siren song sung from the pages of The New York times and the dozens of national publications since. It's hip in Nashville. Hey, they're cool down there, Ya'll. Except, of course, they'd never say, "Ya'll." I wondered: How do perfectly coiffed hipsters meet other perfectly coiffed hipsters if you never smile when a smile is bestowed. When you look through the person who has just looked in the eye?

Two decades ago, I returned to Nashville, my post-college town, after a decade spent in Atlanta. I reached out to a freelance writer because I didn't know any others here in Music City, and I'd left an entire community of freelancers back in The Big Peach. Where were the other freelance writers? For years I asked that question and even scrambled to find them when I was the associate editor of NashvilleArts Magazine during its first incarnation. In the nearly decade since, finding them here is no longer a problem. But back to Jim, that freelancer. He'd moved here from LA sometime in the mid-80s or so. I'll never forget puzzling over what he said: 

"When I first moved here, I thought, 'if one more person tells me to have a nice day,' I'm going to lose it and punch their lights." He laughed and explained that in time he mellowed. And he grew to like the kindness, the more mellow way of life here. 

Will the young hipsters infiltrating our city, drawn to our creative culture, learn to return the smile extended? To acknowledge the human who has made eye contact with them? Or, will they continue to come in droves, obliterating our Southern way of being like the developers who are gentrifying our nooks and crannies and replacing them with $500,000 skyscraper condos? 

I wonder. 

I'm not planning to being around long enough to find out.

The Power of Addiction and the Addiction of Power

Potent message that covers a vast arena of problematic cultural issues. 

 

On the Sisterhood of Motherhood & in Memoriam of J'laine Vest

Really, now—? Was being a member of the inaugural cast of Nashville's Listen to Your Mother (LTYM) in April, 2014, truly "life changing," as I and others involved had dubbed it? Last week, in an internal dialogue, I pondered the question. In the days that followed, numerous experiences and awarenesses affirmed that assessment....This is Nashville. We do story. And, *historically* we have been a kinda bonded, close-knit city guised as a small town. So, it was natural that Nashville LTYM knocked it out of the park and broke national attendance records for a one-night performance. It also was not surprising that our first cast bonded almost like glue. Why? It was more than our city's strong sense of community. It was perhaps that we all stepped from behind the curtain to reveal parts of ourselves that some of us, including me, had never or rarely revealed before. Not to a whole stage. And then a whole world of You Tube. We were giving voice—our own and for others—to the joys, highs, and lows of being a mother, having a mother, a special needs mother pining for an empty nest, a single mother, even not being a mother, and more. 

From the first rehearsal and every time we heard her read, one LTYM sister took our breath away when she shared a poem she had written about her mother. Who was this lovely beauty of seemingly quiet strength; enviable poise and grace; and a heart, voice, and presence that felt like warm, gentle, loving embrace and a kiss to our spirits? We came to know her as J'laine. J'laine Vest. We'd come to learn bits and pieces about her life: that she was a published poet (40 to count, plus a book,) a playwright, author of anthologies, and teachers manuals. By the time she finished high school, she had written a book of poetry, a book of short stories, and was halfway through her first novel. She received an M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Arkansas. For three years, she was co-director of the Writers In The Schools (WITS) program that taught poetry to students across Arkansas. She has taught English and creative writing at many high schools and colleges, including two years overseas in Prague. And she continued her magic with the fabulous Nashville-based, A Novel Idea, which teaches youth to write prose, poetry, and novels.

Actually, we didn't know all that about her. Because J'laine was much too modest to ever tell any of us these things. Her new friends had to discover them. She reached out to me and voluntarily edited book queries and proposals, press releases, and a non-profit prospectus. Give me more, she'd ask. And mean it. She showed up at Grace's art shows and pop-ups. She was love. She was support. And I am but one of many in several states who experienced some portion of awe and wonder of this dear soul. 

We learned late last week that J'laine suffered a freak accident a week ago today. A fracture to her skull caused irreparable brain damage and she died on Monday. 

J'laine: thank you for being a part of our small LTYM tribe. Thank you for being a mother to your stepson,  daughter, and young son. Thank you for being you. Thank you for gracing us with your presence, though for too short of a time. We are so very grateful that you gave us the following gift of your voice, your essence, and your amazing talent in these words: 

 

Rest in peace, dear one. So many love you very, very much. For our loss, there are no words. 

Audition slots for the Nashville Listen to Your Mother, 2015 filled up in rapid speed. (There were 80 slots last year, from which our cast of 13 were chosen.) Can't wait to see the new slate of talent. Mark your calendar. You won't want to miss it: Sat. May, 20, Tennessee Performing Arts Center.  Also coming to 39 cities across the country near, on, or around Mother's Day. Ten cities were added this year. Each city will have its unique Listen to Your Mother cast drawing mostly from local storytellers living in the region. View more of our local stories: 2014 Nashville cast. And, nationally, find topics, other cities; 2014, and other years.