news

There's something literary going on here
irony, metaphor, limited fork theory
hell if I know
What I do know
is that these ties are strange
concerned
disturbing
amusing
uncertain

The 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall
standing in the living room
as my mom grabs the remote
flicks on the news
says we have to go,
to witness this great event.

American soldiers kill on American soil
a horrific tragedy
yet we ask them to go kill
and be killed
far from home
and that is heroic.

And Sesame Street turns 40.
the same messages from then still make sense now
if only more adults listened to and followed the lessons
of a yellow bird
or someone living in a can
or a pair of friends with different personalities.
Cookie Monster has had to change his tune
but he's on Google's homepage
so he still gets the fame he deserves.

healthcare
climate change
no money for schools
bank robberies and break-ins every which way I turn
the immediacy is overwhelming
why won't people consider all and plan for a better future?
because surviving the present is its own epic battle

Shut off the alarm clock
get out of bed.
Time to take on another day.

falls to rest

In my family we call them supernovas
just before darkness
when a star bursts big and bright
loud with energy and song of growth and life
more than a body ought to contain
an explosion of light and sound
before, almost unexpectedly,
though we know it's coming
the light fades
dark and quiet.

And the child falls to rest.

Looking up, I can't help but notice the brilliant gold
leaves so bright with color
I wonder how any living soul can walk by
without noticing the echoing aria that it sings.
The final explosion of song and color
contrasting against the dark, but solid, frame.

The performance catches our attention and consumes the moment
it is beautiful to the eye
but soon it will fall away
leaving only the strong and once shadowed backbone
and it will go quiet.

And the child falls to rest.

*

Perhaps it is ironic
that these words clatter to the page late in the night
I know I must close the day
but instead the vitality quickens
seemingly without reason
bursting energy
all I want to do is run
throw my arms wide
cast myself in every direction
as though this life must be released before it is wasted
must be released before I am worthy of sleep.
And then, always unexpectedly, the quiet is accepted
and the day is done.

And the child falls to rest.

Labor Day = Michigan

In celebration of work with a day of rest, the national news today seemed perpetually infused with whispers and stories from Michigan. Trudging and struggling with the nation's highest unemployment rate, the stories of work seemed to talk about how busy and bustling this state once was, and now, what happens when the plants shut down and hands go still, idle. We are a working state. Michigander or Midwesterner, we are a hardworking people. We play, and we care, and we love, and we define ourselves by the impact we make, at work and at home. It is interesting to watch what happens when the work goes away. Beyond the economic hardships of families and individuals stressed with worry about how to keep their home or put food on the table, there is a depression of morale, a lost of identity. Who am I if I cannot do, create, work?

Must we change the way we define who we are? I don't think so. We just need to dare to look wider, beyond the periphery of one task in one job. We are workers. We must also dare to be thinkers. Problem-solvers. Adventurers. Explorers. Who knows what possibilities will arise when an auto mechanic joins forces with a school teacher, or an engineer with a film crew. What will be discovered when a former postal worker steps into a job in a social research lab, or a textile manager is hired by a theater producer?

It is not the work itself that defines and drives us. It is our ability to do the work. Any job, any task, any innovation.

Let's see what we can do.

Other employment options

I want to dance.
I want to fly.
I want to be a medivac helicopter pilot.
I want to learn how to rebuild an engine and repair a car.
I want to be a carpenter.
I want to make jewelry out of hardware
and compasses.
I want to be able to fix anything, everything.
I want to build, construct, create.

Bliss

There are two feelings of bliss.

One is contentment. Familiarity. Balance. Knowing. Peace.
The other is exposure. Newness. Creative. Unknown. Possibility.

One is comfort.
The other is adventure.

One is shelter from the whipping wind.
The other is living air sweeping past your skin.

One is safety.
The other is risk.

One is cozy.
The other is wilderness.

Two feelings of bliss.

Determine

Is it giving up
to re-prioritize what is important?
Is sacrificing everything else on principle worth it?
Is it stubbornness
or drive?
Insanity
or determination?
Narrow fear
or focus?

For better or worse, it is probably these decisions that differentiate between what we are
and what we want to be.

Sunday

breakfast and a football star
paper perused in the morning sun
curled up and wanting to sleep, swinging from the sky.
but my heart is racing.
romp through the woods
and breathe in simplicity, perfection, green
the smallest wonders catch my attention
and overwhelm.
a rock that's traveled through time
the patterns in the maple's bark
a chipmunk
a dog.
outside my window a cacophony of children laugh and shriek
bikes clattering and plastic trucks rumbling
the sidewalk is the adventure.
in a darkened theater there is emotion and logic
story and action
metaphor perhaps
when to extract meaning and signals,
and when to make own meaning
confusion
possibilities
choices
choices
risk.

This is my day.

expression

I saw something this evening
a performance
an expression
something I had visualized
but rarely seen physically articulated.
While the simple moments bring peace, stillness,
this connected with the rest;
vitality, confusion, layers, complexity, chaotic clarity.
It may not have been my story necessarily,
but the languages spoken were those I wish I could use to express when words fail.
music.
image.
dance.
light.
the cacophony of a three-dimensional Jackson Pollock,
spun on three axes, circled and observed from many angles
in brief moments all the pieces aligned and were clear
only to shift into muting layers
and suddenly become clear again.

blessed are the artists, who dare to express.

worthy of our attention

storytellers
and starry skies
dust encrusted treasures and green unfathomable miracles.
raised to be a rebel
three centuries crammed into one
an old soul amongst the new.
silliness, laughter, labor and innovation
learned love of gritty beauty
there's magic in the rain.
stolen glimpses of life's discovery
to see the growth of movers and shakers
satisfaction at being able to help lift, not rise, to the top.
mint and lilies by the water's edge
snowy stillness and crackling fires
exhausted nighttime summer drives
it is easier to speak in the darkness.
in your glow the noise falls away
replaced with awe
you are beautiful.

If you don't like the view, change it.

Life lesson

Surround yourself with people who work hard, laugh often, and focus on the joys in life.
And know how to have fun.

I think I'm in love...

... with a movie trailer
... or maybe a story
... or maybe, a reminder, a possibility.

Ask and ye shall (sometimes) receive

Easter Bunny in my bathroom?

Now here's one for ya.

I walked by my neighbor's house on my way home from work today to discover a little, gray, floppy-eared bunny rabbit sitting on the sidewalk, nibbling berries from a bush.
I stopped. It did not run away.
I knelt down. It came up to me. It even let me pet it. This was no ordinary wild rabbit.
Being the worry-wort, nosy neighbor, or helper person (social worker?) who can't let a cute and friendly furry animal hang out so close to a busy road, I couldn't just leave it. So I picked up the little bunny rabbit, and we went for a walk, knocking on every single neighbor's door (starting with the first few who are usually in the know). I asked kids riding their bikes, I asked dads coming home from work (he was more concerned about the rabbit possibly snacking on his flower beds than the possibility of it being a lost pet, but don't worry, his daughter's only 1 or so, he'll learn). The closest I got was a dog walker who had seen the bunny nibbling in the same yard this morning; it must have been a tasty bush! Strangely the owners of said bush have not seen this little guy/girl before. (On the plus side, I did get to meet several neighbors that I had not met before; there's something about a soft and fuzzy pet that gets people to open their doors).

So now I have a very friendly, very pet-oriented, little gray floppy-eared bunny rabbit temporarily living in a box in my bathroom.

Anyone missing the Easter Bunny?

Being too serious is silly

and the silly things in life should be taken seriously.

Right?

Recent amusements

Two robins sitting in the trees.

Successfully teaching someone how to jump-start her car.

Greenery growing despite the still-frozen air.

A left-handing guitar player, strumming up.

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

If an idea is thought, but never recorded or shared, does it exist?
If a feeling is unacknowledged or unexpressed, is it truly felt at all?

I go through cycles of wondering why this blog exists. Is it to express? Is it to be known? Seems like life should be lived, and experiences shared and expressed with other in person. Then, when there is no one to listen or share with, perhaps this venue does have a purpose--so that I can better understand, through expression.

Then again, it's never just one-way. Expression is a conversation, and listening is just as valuable as speaking (perhaps more so). In that case, shouldn't I be making a better effort to learn how to say it honestly and confidently to people in the flesh, rather than the nebulous world of cyberspace that may, or may not (how do I know? does it matter?) be read, and rarely responds?

I thumbed through old letters I've sent and received, and it's curious to see where and who I was. Some things change and some things stay, they always will and always do, but it seems that only in hindsight can I really understand where I've traveled. It's only through these expressions of self, and the interpretations expressed by those who are or were once close (and, perhaps even the observations of those who are seemingly strangers), that my understanding of importance, perspective, the world, everything, becomes more clear. Sometimes I marvel at how well other read that which I think I keep hidden, and, conversely, how I express that which I may not intend. It's good to have those around you who are willing to be a mirror, and a light.

... and those who are able to catch the rambling, and don't mind trying to make sense of it. :-)

So maybe there will be more expression here. Maybe there will not. It depends on who's listening, and how... or not.

G'night.

Keep it in perspective

Sometimes it's good to consider things a bit, really.

poignant questions

Do you ever have that surprisingly clear moment when a perfect stranger, or even someone who doesn't know you very well, asks a highly poignant question? One of those that gets right to meat of what's on your mind, but something that those who see you daily never think to ask?

That happened today. Twice. With two separate people. In two separate instances.

How do they do that?

The greatness of track

There are two great stories in here.


The Coach who inspired women to become champions
99-year-old sports great saw potential when society said no
by Jo-Ann Barnas, Detroit Free Press
03/01/2009

He offers his left arm and escorts you down a flight of steps.

"Hold tight," he says. "It's slick out here."

Kenneth (Red) Simmons is 99 years old.

He reaches the passenger side of his gray Impala and opens the door, asking you not to mind the two cushions on the seat that he keeps for his wife, Lois.

He starts the car, turns up the heat and pulls out of the parking lot. He's only a few dozen yards from where -- 74 years ago -- he raked the long-jump pit on the day track-and-field legend Jesse Owens broke the world record at the 1935 Big Ten Championships at the University of Michigan's Ferry Field.

But this isn't a day for that kind of nostalgia.

For the last decade, Simmons has been heralded as U-M's oldest living former head coach. He became the Wolverines' first women's track and field coach in 1976, although his contributions to women's sports began 16 years earlier when he and his first wife, Betty, started a girls track club in Ann Arbor called the Michigammes.

It was a pioneering program that enabled women to dream as big as men and provided the catalyst to careers in such challenging fields as law, engineering and medicine.

"Back then, people said it wasn't ladylike to sweat," Simmons said. "We just said, 'Let's give women an opportunity to compete.'

"We thought, when it comes down to it, life isn't just about what you do. It's about what you become."

There have been many high points in Simmons' life, but one of the most meaningful for women came in 1960, the year he and Betty Simmons went to Italy to attend the Rome Olympics.

By then, Red Simmons -- who had retired in 1959 after 25 years as a detective sergeant with the Detroit Police Department -- was working at U-M as a teaching fellow in the physical education department. Betty Simmons was a gym teacher at Slauson Junior High in Ann Arbor.

Except for sprinter Wilma Rudolph, who won three gold medals, the U.S. women's track and field team was a disappointment.

When they returned from their trip, they were determined to start a track and field team for girls with the idea of eventually creating their own elite athletes -- and Olympians, if they were lucky. They decided to call the club the Michigammes.

They hit a home run on their first try.

The Michigammes

"There she is -- this is the girl that made me a coach."

Red Simmons is beaming. It's a Wednesday morning, and Simmons is in a weight room at Crisler Arena about to begin his workout when Francie Kraker Goodridge walks in. They hug.

Today, Goodridge is recruitment coordinator for U-M's School of Music, Theatre & Dance. But 49 years ago, she was a lighting-fast eighth-grader who could beat all the girls -- and boys -- in running races at Slauson.

"Betty came home and said, 'I think we have our girl,' " Simmons said with a smile.

Goodridge was the Simmons' first Michigamme. And she remains their most famous.

Goodridge became the first native-born Michigan woman to qualify for the U.S. Olympic team (Mexico City in 1968 in the 800 meters; Munich in 1972 in the 1,500).

She remembers the early days well.

Starting a girls' track and field club certainly didn't come without its obstacles. Initially, Simmons said, Don Canham, then the Wolverines men's head track coach, was against the idea.

This was a decade before Congress in 1972 passed Title IX, the Education Amendment Act that banned sexual discrimination in education programs that receive federal funding to provide equal athletic opportunities for men and women.

"He eventually said, 'Just don't get in our way,' " Simmons said.

Goodridge said: "One of Red's major gifts is his personality. He can get a lot done in sensitive areas because he'd do it in a way that didn't ruffle feathers. He never lost his temper."

Red and Betty Simmons collected equipment for their team by retrieving spikes, old shirts and warm-ups that were discarded by the men's team. Goodridge recalled that her first pair of track spikes had been salvaged by Red Simmons from a dusty old box at Yost Field House.

"They were ancient: permanent spikes -- the length of three-quarter-inch nails," Goodridge said. "They were made of kangaroo leather. Light as feather, though; fit me like a glove."

Eventually, the Michigammes grew into one of the top amateur track and field teams in the country, producing seven national champions and 19 state champs.

Suddenly, girls whose junior high and high schools didn't have sports teams had a place to run and jump and throw -- thanks to Red and Betty Simmons, and other programs like theirs that began sprouting up across the metro area.

"It changed my life," said Karen McKeachie, 56, of Ann Arbor, who was a miler and ran cross-country with the Michigammes beginning in the late 1960s. "It got me into a sport that I could keep doing my whole life, and it was even kind of responsible for me to going into engineering. Running made it easier to be the person I wanted to be. It opened doors."

McKeachie later became a five-time national and four-time women's age-group world triathlon champion. She helped coach the Michigammes in 1974, when Simmons took a leave of absence to be with Betty Simmons, who was dying of cancer.

In 1976, at age 66, Red Simmons was hired as U-M's first women's track coach. Shortly thereafter, the Michigammes ceased as a club.

A campus fixture

How do you want to be remembered?

Simmons, who considers himself a centenarian in training, will turn 100 on Jan. 5, 2010.

He's sitting in a corner booth at Benny's Family Dining on South Industrial near the U-M campus in Ann Arbor.

It's just after 9:30 on a weekday morning, and Simmons is looking dapper, as usual. He's wearing a white turtleneck under a blue U-M track sweater, khakis and brown shoes. The buckle on his belt was made from a medal he won running track at the 1930 Drake Relays.

He mentions that he owns a 1932 Penn Relays watch. It's still running.

"Wore it at Eastern yesterday," Simmons said, referring to Eastern Michigan University, his alma mater. He graduated from EMU -- then called Michigan State Normal College -- in 1933.

Simmons is a fixture at both campuses, attending athletic events with Lois, whom he married in 1975, the year after Betty Simmons died of cancer. They were married 42 years and had two children -- Marge, 71, and Larry, 70.

"It's been a continuous adventure being his son," Larry Simmons said. "It's a joy to go with him anywhere. Very seldom do I get to introduce him as my dad. Everybody always says, 'Oh, and that's Red's son.'

"His circle is much bigger than mine."

His early years

Known by his nickname, Red Simmons was one of the state's top hurdlers and sprinters at Redford High. Newspaper headlines in the 1920s dubbed him the Crimson Flash. Simmons also was an all-city halfback and captain of the football team.

"Life was a little different in those days," said Simmons, whose sunset-colored hair of his youth now is thinned and faded to a strawberry blond. "I started at Beech Road School -- first through eighth grade in one room. A wood furnace, two outhouses -- one for the boys, one for girls -- and kerosene lamps on the walls."

Simmons, who was born in Cleveland, was a track star, wrestler and boxer at EMU.

He once was asked to be a running partner for an amateur boxer, a teenager he came to know as Joe Barrow. For seven weeks -- Simmons believes it was around 1930 -- the two ran side-by-side in the mornings on the streets of Detroit.

Barrow was Joe Louis.

In 1932, Simmons competed in the U.S. Olympic trials in track. He also ran in track meets in summer AAU meets. Often the field included Owens. Simmons said he never beat him.

The two weren't strangers that historic day in 1935 at Ferry Field. Owens, then a star at Ohio State University, broke three world records and tied another in a two-hour span -- considered one of the greatest one-day sports achievements in history.

Simmons was asked to work the event. At the time, he was a Detroit police officer -- and the department's star athlete in field-day competitions held across the Midwest and Canada.

A year later, at the 1936 Berlin Olympics, Owens would destroy German Chancellor Adolf Hitler's idea of Aryan superiority by winning four gold medals.

In 1972, Owens gave Simmons a plaque. Owens wrote: "Hi Red. My best to an old friend and foe."

Simmons won the AAU high-hurdle championship at age 36 in 1946 and competed for the police department until 1951. He still works out five days a week and said he thinks his athleticism came from his parents, particularly his mother.

His father, Herbert Simmons, was a lumberjack-turned-barber who liked to work up a sweat as a sparring partner at local boxing gyms. Red Simmons' mother, Margaret, was never shy showing off her sporting ability around her children.

Simmons recalled how she'd hike up her skirt and challenge him to footraces in the field near their home.

"Boy, she could run," Simmons said. "My first wife, Betty, she was a fine athlete, too. But like my mother, she never really got to compete. It wasn't accepted for girls to be athletic back then. They were born in a time when women just didn't do those things."

'Live your life'

All these years later, his legacy endures.

"Red Simmons was a multiculturalist even before it was a word," said Marcia Karwas, 54, who competed for the Michigammes in the mid-1970s. "He understood the value of being a human being."

Simmons said: "I had athletes then -- and many of them still are. But now they're also lawyers, doctors, professors -- anything they want to be."

Another Michigamme reunion is in the works; the team last came together four years ago. But this one will be to celebrate another milestone: Simmons' 100th birthday.

"No one knows how long you're going to live," Simmons said. "So live your life."

Music

Musicians possess the most amazing of gifts.
To express that which they feel
in a way that strikes the very root of that feeling
in others
proof that we are not so different
proof that we are connected.

Someone tell me why

Someone tell me why this world is so f*#ked up
Someone show me a reason for such vast extreme
such beauty
such atrocities
such silly details so many of us sweat along the way.

Things I learned from a 2-year-old today

-Waking up with a smile is the best way to wake up.
-Little things are worth getting excited over.
-Food is much better when shared.
-The world of imagination is never boring.
-Blue cake and abalone with tea must all be eaten in very large, cookie-monster-style bites.
-Some puddles we need help to cross. But most are worth splashing through.
-The point of the walk is not always to get to where you're going. Sometimes the point of the walk, is just to walk. Slow down. Look around.
And finally...
-Hugs fix everything.

The arts are an indicator species

When I served with my AmeriCorps team, we collectively spent over a hundred hours restoring a small fen in rural Indiana, all to save a specific type of butterfly.

"A butterfly?" you ask?

Why spend thousands of dollars in state and federal resources to sustain the survival of one kind of butterfly that, frankly, can't fly all that well?

Because for some odd reason, if that butterfly could thrive, so could the rest of the flora and fauna that shared its unique ecosystem. By working to sustain an environment that supported that fragile but beautiful creature--that indicator species--we also sustained everything around it.

The arts that butterfly. They are the indicator species for the health and vibrancy of our communities. Just as demographers look at the infant mortality rate of a country to determine how well they can protect and sustain the health of their populations, we must look at how much we value and support the arts to determine the health of our communities. The arts are where we define who we are, express what we dream, and explore what we experience. They are the place where unique ideas, dissenting opinions, and diverse experiences are first voiced. To say that we--as taxpayers, as community members, as Michiganders and as Americans--are willing to withdraw our support from the arts is to say that we have given up on living for great dreams in exchange for simply living. And that, as anyone will tell you, is no sustainable life at all.

As individuals and as a community we have a responsibility to support and protect the arts. In a state where our government arts funding equals out to be less than the cost of a cup of coffee for every man, woman, and child, we need to think about how much value the arts contribute to our lives, and how much we should contribute to the arts.

So if that guitar player on the street dreaming of cutting a record makes you smile on your way to work, or if your kid gets to know someone from a different background during a crafts project at your local library, think about how much value those experiences contribute to your life.

And call your representative; tell them to buy the arts another cup of coffee.

High Five

This kind of thing makes me very happy.

Time

I have discovered what a luxury time can be. When I don't have to be in 20 different places at once, it's amazing how much I can get done. True, a busy schedule can be good motivation to get a lot done, but there definitely is that point when too much is too much.

Today I (temporarily) shoved one major thing off my plate; work. I'm sure it's going to bite me in the ass tomorrow, but without work, I was so productive. I got almost half of my do-on-the-weekends-except-I-don't-have-a-weekend list completed (which, given that this list has been growing exponentially since the first of January, is definitely saying something). It felt good to actually complete something, however minute it may really be. I felt more organized. more confident. more happy.

Tomorrow I will dive into the thick of it again. Maybe that's the trick, though. Not maybe, it is. I've always admired those who can give calm and full attention to one thing at one moment, despite the amount of chaos swirling around them.
Let's see if I can try that tomorrow.

More open than closed

I need to be more open than closed
say yes more often than I say no
and dare to always see the good first
take the risk
go

Ella Mae Johnson

I have not been jumping up and down with excitement about the inauguration. Don't get me wrong it is exciting, wonderful in fact. A day of celebration. A day of change. But for me the great day was the election. There was work to do, and people coming out of every nook and cranny to do it. There was a cause, a reason, a call, and miraculously Americans came out to answer it. So Inauguration Day? Eh. The real work starts tomorrow.

And then this morning, instead of waking up to news reports of people dead in Gaza, bombs in Israel, and corruption on this side of the pond, I woke up to a very different tone. Story after story came from reporters, on the street corners and metro stations of Washington, reporting on the build-up of today. The world was moving,not flooding, but moving, toward the mall, towards the capitol, towards... something new, and exciting.

As each reporter wrapped up their story, the commentator from back home in the warm radio station would ask them, "Are there any problems? What's the mood there?"

And there were no problems.
Almost unbelievingly, each reporter on the street would reaffirm it. No, it's true, everyone's happy. Everyone's excited. Everyone's working together.

And then came the story of Ella Mae Johnson. Ms. Johnson is 105 years old. She has seen a swath of the Civil Rights Movement that the world can only read about to understand. She was there. She experienced it, the good and the bad. And when November 4th called Obama to office, she made a decision. She was going to Washington.

It didn't matter what her nurses said to convince her, what steps needed to be taken to get her there, Ella Mae Johnson was going. She wanted to see this part of history with her own eyes.

So as I lay in bed, burrowed in the warm weight of down and flannel, I picture Ms. Johnson, and her nurse, putting on pearls and a warm coat, hat, gloves, and probably a blanket, and pushing her wheelchair up the street to be in a sea of millions. And this centennial social worker (that's right, she's a social worker) has once again answered the call of her profession, and mobilized me.

And reminded me that happiness, celebration, and success, can be the best ways to motivate people to change.

Thanks Ella Mae.

Do

I was presented with two videos today.

This is a lesser-known speech from MLK, known as his "Beyond Vietnam" speech. I realize it was 40 years earlier, but it fits so well with imagery from our present wars, and is profoundly saddening to me because of this. Have we learned nothing in 40 years? What will it take, to have these relatively simple, and I would argue universal concepts understood by those with the power to make change?

We all have the power, somehow, some way.



Being presented with these challenges, I question my desire to do other work. How dare I spend my time organizing artistry in the midwest when there is so much pain, suffering, inequality and wrong in the world? It is too overwhelming, and I feel like I cowardly retreat to my glue bucket and spreadsheets. I should be out there, stopping the soldiers from shooting, the tanks from rolling, the pangs of hunger and the oppression spirits.

But then I see magic. A spark in a studio conversation. An exchange amongst crew. A moment caught on film. And I think, there is a possibility to make change, to create happiness and raise hopes, through a method that makes me happy too. They've got to have a reason to live if you're going to enable them to eat.

And then I see stories like this, and I see everyone who watches this smile.
And I realize what is possible.

Notice beauty in all contexts

Below is the short version of a true story. For the longer article, with video footage, go here: ttp://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html


"Violinist in the Metro --- Wash, DC
A man sat at a metro station in Washington, DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousand of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule. A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk. A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. Only 27 of 1097 passengers stopped. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats average $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?"

To the ones fighting over there

It takes the braver, stronger, wiser person
to say enough is enough
and put the guns away.
Do you
yes you
the one person
in the line of many
do you know the power you have?
You can take a life with one finger
but you can give life
to many
by putting the rocket down
standing up to those who think they know
but have never been questioned
and tell them that this is wrong.
You have the power
to change things.
Please try.