Born To Shimmer

We're born to shimmer.
That's what I believe. We were all created with something special about us. A truth, a light, a love and a purpose. We're created as a promise to the future  - the coming of something wonderful and amazing.
Yet, sometimes we don't get there.
One of my favorite songs is Shimmer by Shawn Mullins.
"We're born to shimmer
We're born to shine
We're born to radiate
We're born to live
We're born to love
We're born to never hate..."

But sometimes we are taught to hate. We're even too quick to do so.
Just yesterday, when the news broke about the arrest of a suspect in the murder of a 15-year old girl, I learned that people within an hour of the news were already posting hateful words on the suspects' Facebook page.
I certainly don't condone what he's arrested for. I assume the police got the right guy. I hope they did. I hope this kid gets the justice he deserves. I'm disgusted and saddened by what he might have done. But to go so far as to post hatred on his page, I won't do that. I'm better than that. I'm stunned that so many others are so quickly motivated to do so. Isn't stooping to such hateful actions just answering the kid's evil with more?
I know people were saddened to learn the girl wasn't found alive. I'm sure many were emotional and even furious about the waste of such a life and senselessness of the whole thing. We should be angry about the violence and senseless loss of life we see every day.  But is demonstrating our own hate, really the answer?
Wouldn't it have been better to show empathy for the mourning family? Or show appreciation to the efforts of the wardens and police who worked so hard in this case? Or support the searchers that volunteered to help find this girl? Or bond together as a community and rise and grow from such tragedy? There were so many other options, positive steps to take amidst the sadness - rather than resort to more hatred.
One of my favorite books is The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara. In that book, Joshua Chamberlain talks about man and equality. He says he believes that every man has a divine spark and that is what makes us human.
I think we all have that divine spark. That is what makes us shimmer. But too often people dim that light inside. We groom the hatred, anger and bitterness inside. Soon that overwhelms the love that is our true center.
I see it everyday. It's in our politics. It's in our work place. It's in the day-to-day happenings of our lives. People are living their anger and bitterness and expressing their hatred. Who knows what circumstances have bred those feelings. It has become easier to show our displeasure and express our anger than it is to show our care and love.
That's not how we were created. That's not the core of who we are as humans. That's not our purpose.
It is too easy to forget that and live in that darkness and not feel the shimmer in us all.
But as we dispatch this anger and hatred and shake demons that haunt us, our hearts become less hard. The shine begins to radiate again.  That's what is in our nature. It's what we were born to do. We can make a difference rather than make a stink about something.
That's what our instinct should be - to shimmer, shine, radiate, love and release the hate.

My Song

What song am I?

What is the song that is so much a part of me or so associated with me that the second anyone hears it, I’m the one they think of?

I pondered that question recently.

A friend of mine emailed me about how he had been at lunch and had heard the Gordon Lightfoot song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” The mere mention of that song reminds us all of a friend and his big goofy grin. It immediately prompts a quick toast to our to-soon-to-be deceased and sorely missed brother,  Rob.

I can imagine Rob getting a huge thrill and laugh over the fact that we think of him every time we hear that song. And now it seems we here it often. It must be Rob’s way of reminding us he’s there.

It really was just a joke to begin with. We were in a bar and a friend of ours was singing there. He broke into that Gordon Lightfoot song. We might have even requested it. As he began playing the opening chords, Rob looked at us and declared himself the lone survivor of the Edmund Fitzgerald. He beamed that big goofy grin, and we all laughed riotously. We can all recall that moment and see that grin as if it was yesterday.

He died a few years later but as the song says, his “legend lives on.” When we were recently in Florida, we conned a karaoke regular to sing the song for us. It isn’t an easy song to sing but he gave it a try and we all toasted our friend.

Now Rob is forever linked to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

So that made me wonder what song would I be forever linked to?

I’ve got a whole catalog of songs that remind me of others. I once joked that I should write a book about what songs remind me of which girls. I figured I’d make a lot of enemies that way. I just heard a song the other day that reminded me of a girl in college, but I realized that song and the story behind it might not make the book. That’s a story that likely will just stay with me.

But I’m not sure what song defines me.

There are songs I like of a rebellious nature that I like to feel as my own.  There’s Motley Crue’s "Wild Side" but I’m really not THAT wild.  I love the Levellers “One Way” or even better “A Life Less Ordinary.” I think that might define me better than most. U2 has some great anthems that I identify with but I’m not sure they’re my songs.  When I think of some of my other favorite artists,  the Beatles, George Harrison, the Smithereens, the BoDeans, REM, Peter Gabriel, and Richard Shindell , they all have songs I truly love dearly but I can’t really make any of them mine.

I do remember a friend saying once that when he heard a Smithereens song, he thought of me – only because I was the only die-hard Smithereens fan he knew. In fact, there are more Smithereens songs and BoDeans songs that remind me of other people than they do myself.

Maybe I should Facebook message Pat from the Smithereens or Kurt from the BoDeans and get them to write me an anthem. I’ve recently had the urge to write songs again myself. Maybe I’ll write my own.

But really a song that kind of serves as a lasting legacy to me isn’t one I create. It is a song that fits me or reminds people of me. In a way, Rob defined his song in an unintended manner. I might inspire it or help prompt someone linking a song to me but I don’t see me creating that link intentionally.

My song would have to be chosen by others, maybe with a little bit of inpiration from me. They would be the music and the words that make them think of me, hopefully in a good way.

So, it makes me curious. What song am I?

When the F-Bombs Fall

When the news is all about an F-Bomb instead of real bombs, that's probably a good thing.
Red Sox slugger made news this weekend with his speech prior to Saturday's baseball game at Fenway Park.  Let's just say he accentuated his speech with some flowery language that drew cheers from some while others were covering their children's ears. Meanwhile, networks and the FCC might have been using strong language of their own as they realized that Ortiz had just dropped the F-Bomb on live television.
Soon came praise for Ortiz and his speech and criticism too. And t-shirts. They had to turn it into a t-shirt.
Now I'm not one to curse very often. If I'm talking like that, it is a sure sign of a wealth of discontent - and a warning to keep your distance.

Otherwise, I try to avoid such language. I hear it too often from too many people. I believe we should elevate our language instead of lower it into the gutter of society. I've seen quality and intelligent people suddenly appear and sound like lesser versions of themselves because of their language. It pains me to see and hear people represent themselves in such a way. If you sound and talk like a low-class buffoon, people just might see you as such as well.
But in the case of Ortiz, I cut him some slack. Thankfully, the FCC did also. They recognized the situation and gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was an emotional moment and his language reflected the power and defiance that it represented.
I remember a professor of mine in college talking about obscene language. His point was that profanity was properly used when describing things that are profane. He cited the phrase "War is hell" as an example - even though that is hardly obscene in today's speak.
Since then, I've seen a place for obscenity. I still don't like to hear it and I won't use it in any of my books. I figure the world has enough of it without me adding to the profanity-lace noise we hear.
I don't like to hear it for the sake of cursing or as a means to be funny. That's just idiotic and a ploy to make up for a lack of substance.
But quite often I hear strong language in songs and see the power and descriptive nature that it brings. In one song,  Bruce Cockburn sings with conviction, "If I had a rocket launcher, some son of a bitch would die." There's power in those words. Same with in his song, "Call It Democracy." He sings "You don't really give a flying fuck about people in misery." The obscene describing the obscene.
There's all kinds of debate now as to whether Big Papi should have his mouth washed out with soap or if it was the proper thing to say. Certainly, it wasn't something kids probably needed to hear, but it also provided children a lesson in where profanity might actually serve a purpose.Sometimes the situation is just that obscene.
Ortiz was speaking from the heart and speaking with emotion. He was talking about a week in Boston that was pretty hellish - and that's putting it mildly.
Sometimes when there are no words to describe something, an F-Bomb just might do. 

I See The Light

I see the light.
I see it in our thoughts and our actions. I feel it in our souls and our hearts. I sense it in our hope and our dreams.
There is light there. It may be obscured by darkness at times. But there is light.
The last week has been full of darkness. I've felt the effects of it all. I still feel a sense of anger, betrayal and hurt. There's been a shattering of trust and a shaking of my faith. I want vengeance. I want justice. I want my anger to defend my hurt. My open hand is a clenched fist feeling rage from within.
But anger, vengeance and more negative feelings doesn't fix the pain I feel. Evil only breeds more evil. It doesn't stop it. That clenched fist can punch something, but that usually only leads to a hurt fist - trust me, I know.
So, instead, I have light.
I have the shining examples of the heroes of the last week. I have the inspiration of people's word and actions. I have comfort in a community that feels some of the same pain as I.
I am encouraged that our light is far brighter and more empowering and greater than any evil. That encourages me and lifts me up despite feeling so down.
Just last week, I almost left Facebook. I was tired off all the griping, political propaganda, mindless blather that just filled my timeline with negativity. I was in a bad place and was tired of hearing the world's complaining. It was a "Goodbye, cruel world, I'm leaving you today" kind of moment. I was one click away. And I probably would have done it had it it not been for my need to keep an author page.
So my Facebook page remains. After Monday's bombing, it became my community. I felt their hurt and I took comfort in sharing it with them. It became my platform. I posted words that inspired me and enabled me to seize my day and not let others define it. Maybe it helped others. At the least, it shined a light instead in  a place that lacked it.

I was in New York City last month. I spent back-to-back nights at Madison Square Garden. The people there were amazing. From the parking lot attendant to the ushers and other employees of MSG, they were welcoming, friendly and frankly, a joy to talk with and interact with. It felt so wonderful to feel such kindness and desire to help and share their positive attitudes. It was a gift of grace and made me feel amazing because they gave such kindness to someone they barely new.
It reminded me of the power of love and living to help and heal instead of for blame and negativity. It was proof of what a feeling of community can do to lift up instead of tear down.
Since then I've seen the other examples. Just this week, a day after the bombings in Boston, I read someone griping how President Obama hadn't lowered the flag fast enough. Really? In this moment of mourning, this is what is important?
I read about someone who was disturbed by a stranger tossing a banana peel on his lawn. He proceed to approach them, curse them and disparaged their race - all in a matter of seconds - over a banana peel.
This week, we had the vote on gun control. When it didn't pass, I saw numerous posts of people gloating and mocking the president. It just disgusts me. Is this what we've become?
It is bad enough that our politics and leaders are so polarized that they can't get anything done for the sake of their people, but do we as citizens have to mirror that? As a nation and as humans, we're better than that.
We have so many wonderful things in common - our love, our hope and our humanity. Yet, it is our anger and our disagreements that set us apart. We let that darkness define us. We let our desire for blame and excuses overwhelm our hearts and dictate our actions and attitudes. 
We prove otherwise in these moments. Unfortunately, it takes tragedy like this and our lowest moments to bring out the strength and power of humanity. But it is still there.
A group of my high school friends have already begun plotting out a trip to the Boston Marathon next year in honor of our friends who died on 911 at the World Trade Center. Our answer to our anger and our pain is unity, solidarity and a fighting spirit to honor our friend and brother.
I'm not real good at forgive and forget. My heart doesn't forgive easily and my head forgets very little. As much as I've tried to shine my light and be illuminated by that of others, I still feel that anger, betrayal and hurt inside. This is a personal pain I feel. I still struggle with it. And I expect that I'll fail at times to live this truth.
But I know deep inside, my light is stronger than any dark feelings that exist. And I know that is the case with all of us. The world around us is what we make it. And we can make it right.
I can't make the world safer from bombers. I can't legislate gun control. I can't even prevent people, even those closest to me, from hurting me. But I can be strong. I can be a voice of love, peace and hope amidst a chorus of blame, bitterness and excuses. I can shine a light where it is dark. I can make some joyful noise where it is silent.
I see the light. I see it in me. I see it in all of us. It empowers us to illuminate rather than desecrate.
There will be darkness. There will be evil. But there is also light.

Too Close To Home

It is easy  to  feel desensitized with all that we see in the news these days.
Some horrific event happens somewhere far away. It grabs our attention and tugs at our hearts. Yet it still feels like a television show, being acted out on all the cable news channels we're riveted to.
I even feel that in the newsroom. Some breaking story involving a murder or something tragic, it just feels like a story. There's no human face to me and no connection.
I have a connection to Boston. I lived there. I worked there. I've been to concerts at almost every venue around the city. I've been to sporting events there, including the Boston Marathon. When I first learned of the bombing Monday, I knew all kinds of people who very well could have been in the area.
During 911, as I sat horrified and stunned at what I saw, it still seemed like some bad action/disaster movie. I knew one or two people that lived in New York but I felt no true connection to the city or its people. Little did I know at that time that one of my childhood friends had been killed in the World Trade Center that day. A life I was still mourning just a week ago today on his birthday.
Boston isn't some far off city. It is the city I went to as a kid on family vacations. It was the big time for a kid from a somewhat small town in Maine. I learned the nation's history by walking the Freedom Trail and taking in all the sights of our nation's rebellion. I still remember walking from the place of the Boston Massacre with my Dad to Causeway Street for the Celtics game that night. It felt like we had walked all over Boston. It's probably only a few streets away. The name Crispus Attucks still sticks in my head. He was the slave merchant killed in the Boston Massacre.
As a kid I visited Boston quite a few times, attending Red Sox games on a occasion. We'd go to the aquarium, hoping to see Andre the Seal in his winter home - or his girlfriend Smoke. My very first Red Sox game was on Patriot's Day. We went and watched some of the Marathon afterwards. I was an excited kid with a brand new Sox hat and innocent to the world in the big city.
Our high school senior trip was to Boston. Then when I went to college it was on the North Shore. Our freshman trip was going into the city. I'd go into Boston for sporting events and concerts. Then I lived there, living off outer Beacon Street while I commuted through the city every day to work at the Boston Globe. The majority of my record collection comes from Boston. When I wasn't working at the Globe, I sought out record shops all over the city. I have a Luxman stereo unit because of a store I saw one in near Boylston Street. I learned that the Luxman had far greater wattage than it was listed. My neighbors are still thrilled about that.
As an adult, Boston has still been a frequent destination and a home away from home. There were more concerts. There were games at the new Garden, including the Frozen Four and the Hockey East Championships. I was elbowed, pushed and shoved at Filene's as crazed potential brides tried to outrace my sister for a wedding dress. I tried to read War and Peace on Boston's subways on my way to work - and failed.
 I went to the Boston Marathon one year. My brother-in-law was one of those runners for charity, like those that were approaching the finish line Monday when the bomb went off. He was running for Dana Farber and his daughter, a courageous cancer survivor. We were a mile from the finish and his kids met him at the finish line and crossed with him.
My experiences are probably just like everyone else I know. When the news broke Monday, there were a wealth of people I knew that could have been there. My sister and her family still live in the area. I have friends that are runners. They could have been in the race or spectators. There were media members that I knew. They were locked down in the hotel. The same hotel where we celebrated my brother-in-law's accomplishment a few years ago.
Fortunately, through Facebook, all the people that I knew that were there got back safely, friends and colleagues. They're safe but traumatized. The innocence and spirit of Patriots Day in Boston may never be the same.
These events are the kinds of things we see on TV. They happen elsewhere. They don't happen where we live. Boston isn't my residence. It isn't my backyard. But it feels pretty damn close.And knowing how many friends and family I have that could have easily been there, it was too damn close.
Whether it be these kinds of events or the rash of shootings, they seem to be getting closer. I drove by Newtown, Connecticut a few weeks ago on my way to New York City. Suddenly, there it was, an even more real place to me than what I saw on TV.
It all makes me wonder what is happening to this world. These things didn't happen when I was a kid. We didn't worry about school shootings. I didn't wonder about going to Boston and wondering if terrorism might strike.
Bill Richard and his family were in Boston seeking the kind of joy and memories I shared with my family. His son was killed. His wife and daughter severely wounded. Two brothers lost legs. Many others were injured, wounded and scarred for life. Many of them are children. All of them were enjoying a beautiful day, celebrating life and enjoying Boston. Something we've all done.
We can all debate the how and why the escalation of violence, evil and hate has risen to the level it has. I don't know all the reasons. I don't know all the answers.
I just know it feels closer than ever today. That's scary and heartbreaking. And amidst
all that hate, I simply search for peace and hope and love.

The List

The list is out. Yes, that list.
Around Maine, just about everybody knows what list I mean.
There's been a prostitution case in the news of late. The woman charged is a Zumba instructor and her list of clients has been on the verge of release for days now. It supposedly features politicians, attorneys and a TV personality.
The list has been chatted about for days on social media sites. With the release of the first batch of names Monday, those sites are abuzz with comments, jokes and gawkers. I turned on a sports talk show this morning and this is what they were discussing.
Smart alecks and jokesters are getting all the mileage they can out of the situation. I've made a few cracks myself.  I'm even expecting an email from a college friend who typically contacts me when something  in Maine hits the national news.
The media is checking their morals to decide what to do. WCSH created a special banner and link on its web page so voyeurs could find the list immediately. They included a disclaimer that stated that since the names didn't include addresses or other means of identifying these men charged, that confusion and mistaken assumptions could be made if people have the same name. Sorry about that, folks. But they got the names up on their site really, really fast and can puff up their chests about breaking news. I assume it might be a safe bet that the TV personality isn't one of theirs. Boy, would their face be red.
Another TV news site, WMTW posted the story on their site but referred people to the Kennebunk Police Department page, where the names are listed.
Newspapers are trying to make the same decisions. To list or not to list. I'm curious to see what my own paper does, but at the same time, I could care less.
First, people clamored for the names to be released. Now they don't like how they were released. Others have just waited to see the list and fill their insatiable need for whatever reading the names might do for them. It has been a constant dialogue for over a week, getting more mind-numbing with each passing day.
Is this really all we have to focus on? Aren't we better than this? Is our time really best spent waiting on and salivating over the potential salacious and juicy details to come?
So you read the names on the list. If there's nobody you know, then what? Or what if there is somebody you know on the list? Does that make you feel better? Are you anxious to judge or joke over the potential humiliation involved? Do you feel sorry or feel scorn for them?
Maybe its like driving by a bad car accident where people like to slow down and gawk. Maybe it's a means for people to feel better about themselves. They can look at all those immoral names on the list and be glad that they're not those poor perverted saps.
Unfortunately, I see this all as a prime example of all that's wrong with this society. We're a reality show world in which the sexier, slimier and divisive the narrative, the better. Rather than wallow in it, we should be rising above it.
The men get charged. Their names become public knowledge. Good. They probably deserve it. But it shouldn't be our obsession. Are we any better than them if we're addicted to all the details and relish in them all?
It reminds me why negative ads work in politics and why our elected officials talk to us like we're idiots. Because we allow them to. We don't elevate ourselves and our thinking.  It allows for a blanket of dialogue that reaches the lowest common denominator among us. People believe the spin they're spoon fed. People focus on the style and not the substance. The political spin and extremist talk overwhelms us, but many accept it with apathy.
The world is full of discontent and disillusionment. You can't help but see it in the course of a day.  It can be a sad environment to exist in sometimes. Frankly, it is discouraging. But we can't dwell on what's wrong in this world.  It is easy to be overwhelmed with that negative energy. We become only as good as the sludge we immerse ourselves in.
That's why we must rise above the smut and mindless trappings of things like this. We must find ways to make the world better instead of reveling in the examples of its discontent.
In this prostitution case, there are families involved. Wives, kids, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers will all face scorn, scrutiny and shame over somebody's selfish act. Yet, we want to see those names so we know who they are. Does this make the world around us better? What is gained from this feeding frenzy over a Zumba intructor's fantastic failure?
Lists about sex-crazed scumbags can serve their justice to the law breakers. They serve the rest of us nothing.
We're better than this. We should prove it. We should rise above this kind of in-the-gutter focus. We should elevate our thoughts and our actions. Who knows, if we do this, maybe such lists become obsolete.

Feeling Grave

WEST BROOKSVILLE - I stood back and perused all the gravestones in front of me.
Standing at Mount Rest Cemetery in West Brooksville, I could scan all the names and see various ancestors buried in all corners of this small Maine coastal town resting place.
There were not only members of the Mills family but also families named Wasson, Douglass, Farnham (or Varnum) and Jones.
As I realized how many ancestors were scattered around this small resting place, I realized that so many of the characters in my first novel, Sons and Daughters of the Ocean, were based on many of the people there.
In fact, I started to do a quick mental checklist in my head and concluded that almost all of the characters in Sons and Daughters that were based on actual people were buried there. There was one that I knew that wasn't - because he was lost at sea. But then I discovered his stone (pictured below). Though he wasn't buried here, he was at least memorialized here with all the others.
Sons and Daughters of the Ocean is a historical novel based loosely on my ancestors that lived in various parts of Brooksville. It is a coming-of-age tale of sorts about three teens growing up in a small coastal village called Brooks Harbor. The shipbuilding and sea faring is the lifeblood of the town. And there in Mount Rest Cemetery, almost all the characters are buried. It was like my novel coming to life right there before me.
I stopped by the stone of Mary Mills Tapley and her baby, whose tragic story opens my novel. She was my great grandfather's sister and Mary Miller Fuller in the book.
The real life George Miller, Albert Miller and Sarah Dyer are buried there. The Watson's and the Dyer's that play prominent roles in the story are there. So are the Fuller's, though not related, their lives were interspersed with those of my ancestors. There was the real life Lizzie, one of my favorite characters. She actually died as a teen in real life, but I liked her character enough that I didn't want her to die young like in real life. So much so that she is still alive and well in my follow-up novel Breakwater.
It dawned on me that in both of my novels, I shared the lives of so many people and told their stories. It was very powerful and a bit overwhelming to realize this.
It truly made me feel guilty, as if I had intruded on their lives and exploited them.
I felt the same feeling a week or so later. I was on the Victory Chimes anchored in Pulpit Harbor in North Haven. Not far from there is the cemetery on the island where my grandfather's first wife is buried. Her story is the basis for a character in  Breakwater, as is the life of my grandfather and many other ancestors of that generation.
Again, I felt as though I had taken advantage of them. I had used them. I felt a significant amount of responsibility in telling their stories and using their lives the way I did. I wondered if I did them justice. I wondered if I was true to who they were and what their lives were about.
None of this had come to mind when I wrote the two novels. I knew I was basing characters on the lives of these people. But - other than my grandfather -  there was no feeling of any kind of responsibility toward them or their lives.
Now I began to wonder if I had treated them carelessly and irresponsibly. I actually wondered if they'd be displeased with the work I had done.
I mulled this all over a little longer. Then came the reflections of the 911 tragedy. I knew a couple of people that were killed on that day, including a childhood friend and neighbor.
What struck me was the honor and reverence I tried to make, as did others, to the lives of the people that perished. I didn't want to mourn their tragedy. I wanted to celebrate their lives and acknowledge the impact they had on this world.
Then I realized I had done the exact same thing with these characters in my novels. I had not exploited them. I had not used them. I had taken their stories, whether tragic, historic or heroic, and shared them. I had lifted them up and kept them alive and showed how their lives impacted the world around them.
It still feels powerful and overwhelming. But I don't feel guilty. I still hope I did them justice and served them well. But I'm also excited about the fact that these people and their lives live on through my work, to some small extent.
It is still a great responsibility to feel but a rewarding one as well.