Some Days.....
I'm not up for the fight. I want to fold up like sweater and lie on a shelf in a quiet, dark, cozy closet.
Days when the alarm on my I-phone shatters the sweet nothingness of sleep.
When it seems I'm moving through molasses while the seconds on the clock speed by.
Days when I look in my closet and I ask myself what was I thinking? I wonder if wearing pajamas to work would really be such a bad thing?
When work is one big white knuckle, blood pressure raising, stress inducing exercise in frustration and futility from the minute I sit down at my desk to the moment my newscasts goes off the air.
Days when I spend more time worrying what they are thinking about me than being grateful and gracious.
When I take for granted, ignore or are indifferent to those I care about the most.
Some days I forget who my Father is and I forget the wonderful gift he has placed in my hand.
Days when I steam and bubble and fret like a teapot left on the stove too long.
Days when I look at my life and see the work to be done, the bills to be paid the dreams and wants still unfulfilled.
Days I can't see past my self pity to see the glories and grace God showers on me constantly.
Some days fatigue, and ego set the tone instead of peace and humility.
Some days I fall down, I miss the mark, I stay in the valley.
I fail.
But thanks be to God, I get back up and move forward.
Even on those dark days, hope is never far from me, and neither is my Father.
Thank the Lord, for now, there is another day ahead.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
THANKS MONICA!!!
Today a legend gave me a refresher course in "How to do journalism the right way"
Monica Kaufman Pearson was the keynote speaker at the 65 Annual Southern Regional Press Institute at Savannah State University.
The is the first lady of TV Journalism in the Southeast and arguably the country. Reporter, anchor woman, college professor, author, the woman has done it all and done it well.
She came to SRPI to share her more than 30 years of wisdom and experience with college students on the cusp of a journalism career.
Today I was her student, as she spoke to them, I am the one who got schooled.
She reminded me about the essentials. She reminded me of what a good journalist looks and sounds like.
She remained me that you can't do the job without the tools of integrity, hard work, common sense and a devotion to the community you cover.
She remained me that passion is important She reminded me that one should never stop learning, growing, reaching.
She reminded me that being gracious and knowing when to keep your mouth shut is sometimes the difference between success and failure.
She reminded me that I can't wait until conditions are perfect to get busy doing what I want to do.
She remained me that now is the time to make it work, to work your plan and plan your work.
She reminded me that it's never too late, and always treat people like I want them to treat me, even when they don't deserve it.
She reminded me why I got into journalism in the first place. and she inspired me to share what I have instead of looking to feather my nest.
Thank you Monica, for waking me out of my stupor of complacency and preoccupation with my bottom line.
Thanks for reigniting the flame in me.
Thanks for the reminder!!!
Today a legend gave me a refresher course in "How to do journalism the right way"
Monica Kaufman Pearson was the keynote speaker at the 65 Annual Southern Regional Press Institute at Savannah State University.
The is the first lady of TV Journalism in the Southeast and arguably the country. Reporter, anchor woman, college professor, author, the woman has done it all and done it well.
She came to SRPI to share her more than 30 years of wisdom and experience with college students on the cusp of a journalism career.
Today I was her student, as she spoke to them, I am the one who got schooled.
She reminded me about the essentials. She reminded me of what a good journalist looks and sounds like.
She remained me that you can't do the job without the tools of integrity, hard work, common sense and a devotion to the community you cover.
She remained me that passion is important She reminded me that one should never stop learning, growing, reaching.
She reminded me that being gracious and knowing when to keep your mouth shut is sometimes the difference between success and failure.
She reminded me that I can't wait until conditions are perfect to get busy doing what I want to do.
She remained me that now is the time to make it work, to work your plan and plan your work.
She reminded me that it's never too late, and always treat people like I want them to treat me, even when they don't deserve it.
She reminded me why I got into journalism in the first place. and she inspired me to share what I have instead of looking to feather my nest.
Thank you Monica, for waking me out of my stupor of complacency and preoccupation with my bottom line.
Thanks for reigniting the flame in me.
Thanks for the reminder!!!
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
The Next Season
What's next for me? Where do I go from here? 35 years.. that's how long I've been playing the TV news game.
Intern, chryon operator, weekend weather girl, producer, reporter, fill in anchor, assignment editor. I've worn all these hats over the years.
Rearranging your life around breaking news, working holidays or nights or overnights or weekends. Constantly mindful of the 5 or 6 o'clock deadline.
Standing outside in a snow storm or hurricane or tornado telling viewers to stay inside and be safe.
Telling them about the drive by shootings, and baby murders and the corrupt politicians between car commercials and kickers about a dancing squirrel.
It is has never been dull, and I've been blessed to be in this business for so long.
But I'm growing restless and ready for a change. I am eager to move into the next season of my life
What is next for me??
Graduate school, a creative writing career?
Teaching, working on films? Those all sound wonderful. I've been praying about it
for awhile now. I know God knows the plan and will bring it to pass in his good time.
I am looking forward to the future, I don't know exactly what it holds but I know who has it in his hands.
Bring on the next season!! I'm ready to fly!!!
What's next for me? Where do I go from here? 35 years.. that's how long I've been playing the TV news game.
Intern, chryon operator, weekend weather girl, producer, reporter, fill in anchor, assignment editor. I've worn all these hats over the years.
Rearranging your life around breaking news, working holidays or nights or overnights or weekends. Constantly mindful of the 5 or 6 o'clock deadline.
Standing outside in a snow storm or hurricane or tornado telling viewers to stay inside and be safe.
Telling them about the drive by shootings, and baby murders and the corrupt politicians between car commercials and kickers about a dancing squirrel.
It is has never been dull, and I've been blessed to be in this business for so long.
But I'm growing restless and ready for a change. I am eager to move into the next season of my life
What is next for me??
Graduate school, a creative writing career?
Teaching, working on films? Those all sound wonderful. I've been praying about it
for awhile now. I know God knows the plan and will bring it to pass in his good time.
I am looking forward to the future, I don't know exactly what it holds but I know who has it in his hands.
Bring on the next season!! I'm ready to fly!!!
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
BACK WHEN "YOU" WERE "YOU"
There is a car commercial that shows a teenager learning to drive. In the next sixty seconds we see him go from a boy to a man. Getting his first car, a little red roadster, going off to college, getting married, having kids and a career.
The announcer chronicles all of this in verse as the music swells. The spot ends with the man buying a new car( a modern red roadster) that the announcer says reminds the now middle aged guy "of when you were "you".
At first I scoffed at the commercial. It seemed to be saying buying a new car is the secret to surviving a mid life crisis. The secret to throwing off the tired mantle of the old married domesticated man.
Is that what they're saying to me? It felt a little annoying and insulting to this old married lady. Fast forward a few months later to when my 11 year old mommyvan told me in no uncertain terms " I'm not long for this world" I traded in the van for my own little red roadster. A 2011 cranberry Nissan Rogue.
Once behind the wheel, I got it. I understood the feeling of being taken back, to when "you", where "you."
Back to the time when it was only me in my first car. A time when confidence and optimism coursed through my veins. A time when self doubt was still a stranger to me.
A time before children, and carpools, and the work a day demands.
Now I know how a little red car can take you back to a time when you were different. For me it not only took me back to when "me was me," but it awakened something in me. The desire to take out
some of those 30 year old hopes and dreams. To bring them out into the light, dust them off and let them breath.
Back when you were you.. I remember then, I remember that girl. She's still part of me. I am excited about getting to know her again.
There is a car commercial that shows a teenager learning to drive. In the next sixty seconds we see him go from a boy to a man. Getting his first car, a little red roadster, going off to college, getting married, having kids and a career.
The announcer chronicles all of this in verse as the music swells. The spot ends with the man buying a new car( a modern red roadster) that the announcer says reminds the now middle aged guy "of when you were "you".
At first I scoffed at the commercial. It seemed to be saying buying a new car is the secret to surviving a mid life crisis. The secret to throwing off the tired mantle of the old married domesticated man.
Is that what they're saying to me? It felt a little annoying and insulting to this old married lady. Fast forward a few months later to when my 11 year old mommyvan told me in no uncertain terms " I'm not long for this world" I traded in the van for my own little red roadster. A 2011 cranberry Nissan Rogue.
Once behind the wheel, I got it. I understood the feeling of being taken back, to when "you", where "you."
Back to the time when it was only me in my first car. A time when confidence and optimism coursed through my veins. A time when self doubt was still a stranger to me.
A time before children, and carpools, and the work a day demands.
Now I know how a little red car can take you back to a time when you were different. For me it not only took me back to when "me was me," but it awakened something in me. The desire to take out
some of those 30 year old hopes and dreams. To bring them out into the light, dust them off and let them breath.
Back when you were you.. I remember then, I remember that girl. She's still part of me. I am excited about getting to know her again.
Friday, February 12, 2016
MADNESS!!!
Today I watched a 30 second tragedy unfold.
It will stay with me for a long time.
I opened our newsroom e-mail..it was a video clip sent by an angry Mother.
It wasn't a complaint about late school buses, a bad lunch or an incompetent teacher.
The video was something far more egregious..
It began with a teenage boy walking up to a sitting teenage girl. Before you can comprehend what you're seeing he begins to slam his fist into every part of her body.
He lands blows to her head, shoulder, and face.
Then when you think it can't possibly get more
horrific, it does.
The sitting teen tries to fight back, but her flailing arms strike him once maybe twice. By then he has snatched her out of the chair, slammed her against a wall then to the ground. He pounds her face relentlessly like a boxer.
All of this turns my stomach, but what breaks my heart is the fact that a classroom full of students are there, in person watching, laughing, excited by the drama. Not one of them steps in to stop it.
There is no teacher in sight, it's as if the students were left on their own to challenge and destroy each other like something out of Hunger Games.
AS I WATCHED MY HEART BROKE, FOR ALL THOSE KIDS
WHOSE KINDNESS AND COMPASSION WERE SWALLOWED UP BY CALLOUSNESS AND CRUELTY.
HOW DID IT HAPPEN, HOW DID THEY BECOME INDIFFERENT TO WATCHING A FELLOW HUMAN BEING INFLICT SUCH SUFFERING ON ANOTHER??
I THOUGH OF MY DAUGHTER CASSIDY, AND MY SON CONNOR. I WONDERED IF THEY WOULD HAVE TRIED TO STOP IT? IF THEY WOULD HAVE RUN TO FIND AN ADULT OR WOULD THEY HAVE STAYED IN THE CLASSROOM AND WATCHED?
BUT I AM STILL SAD FOR THAT BOY AND THAT GIRL AND ALL THOSE KIDS IN THE CLASSROOM.
THEY HAVE ALL LOST SOMETHING THEY MAY NEVER GET BACK.
INNOCENCE AND EMPATHY.. AND THAT IS THE REAL TRAGEDY.
Today I watched a 30 second tragedy unfold.
It will stay with me for a long time.
I opened our newsroom e-mail..it was a video clip sent by an angry Mother.
It wasn't a complaint about late school buses, a bad lunch or an incompetent teacher.
The video was something far more egregious..
It began with a teenage boy walking up to a sitting teenage girl. Before you can comprehend what you're seeing he begins to slam his fist into every part of her body.
He lands blows to her head, shoulder, and face.
Then when you think it can't possibly get more
horrific, it does.
The sitting teen tries to fight back, but her flailing arms strike him once maybe twice. By then he has snatched her out of the chair, slammed her against a wall then to the ground. He pounds her face relentlessly like a boxer.
All of this turns my stomach, but what breaks my heart is the fact that a classroom full of students are there, in person watching, laughing, excited by the drama. Not one of them steps in to stop it.
There is no teacher in sight, it's as if the students were left on their own to challenge and destroy each other like something out of Hunger Games.
AS I WATCHED MY HEART BROKE, FOR ALL THOSE KIDS
WHOSE KINDNESS AND COMPASSION WERE SWALLOWED UP BY CALLOUSNESS AND CRUELTY.
HOW DID IT HAPPEN, HOW DID THEY BECOME INDIFFERENT TO WATCHING A FELLOW HUMAN BEING INFLICT SUCH SUFFERING ON ANOTHER??
I THOUGH OF MY DAUGHTER CASSIDY, AND MY SON CONNOR. I WONDERED IF THEY WOULD HAVE TRIED TO STOP IT? IF THEY WOULD HAVE RUN TO FIND AN ADULT OR WOULD THEY HAVE STAYED IN THE CLASSROOM AND WATCHED?
- MY HUSBAND I RAISED THEM TO BE COMPASSIONATE, WE RAISE THEM TO BELIEVE THAT WE ARE ALL GOD'S CHILDREN.
WE RAISED THEM TO FEEL EMPATHY FOR THOSE WHO ARE SUFFERING.
I KNOW IN MY HEART, THEY WOULD NOT SIT AND WATCH THAT SAD SPECTACLE AND THAT ENCOURAGES MY SOUL.BUT I AM STILL SAD FOR THAT BOY AND THAT GIRL AND ALL THOSE KIDS IN THE CLASSROOM.
THEY HAVE ALL LOST SOMETHING THEY MAY NEVER GET BACK.
INNOCENCE AND EMPATHY.. AND THAT IS THE REAL TRAGEDY.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
THE GIRL
I'm not her... the girl every eye rests on when she comes into a room.
The girl whose screw up are considered cute. I'm not the most popular, turning down invitations to lunch or coffee.
I'm not the witty one, or the one with perfect grammar skills or the speller.
I'm not the skinny girl who can eat whatever she craves and still look forward to short sleeves and swimsuit season.
I'm not the chick who always looks perfectly put together, the girl with the cute laugh and the cascading hair.
I'm not the one who is quick with a quip that can bring the house down.
Popular, pretty and perfect, that's not me
.
I'm not those things but I am this girl..
the cause of my Husband's smile and the gleam in his eye.
The girl whose 18 year old daughter still greets her with a hug and who will occasionally sit on her lab.
The girl she still calls Mommy.
I am the girl who is still asked by my 13 year old son to tuck him in and
say good night prayers.
I am the girl who can pick up a phone and call her Mother just to say I love you.
I am the girl who can still make my sisters laugh and my brothers proud.
The girl who has a huge extended family who know me and pray for me and ask my advice
The girl who knows who made me and that his work is not a mistake but a thing of beauty.
I am the girl who knows her Father is the source of all that is good, and beautiful and pure, and strong.
I am the girl at peace with the woman I am.
I'm not her... the girl every eye rests on when she comes into a room.
The girl whose screw up are considered cute. I'm not the most popular, turning down invitations to lunch or coffee.
I'm not the witty one, or the one with perfect grammar skills or the speller.
I'm not the skinny girl who can eat whatever she craves and still look forward to short sleeves and swimsuit season.
I'm not the chick who always looks perfectly put together, the girl with the cute laugh and the cascading hair.
I'm not the one who is quick with a quip that can bring the house down.
Popular, pretty and perfect, that's not me
.
I'm not those things but I am this girl..
the cause of my Husband's smile and the gleam in his eye.
The girl whose 18 year old daughter still greets her with a hug and who will occasionally sit on her lab.
The girl she still calls Mommy.
I am the girl who is still asked by my 13 year old son to tuck him in and
say good night prayers.
I am the girl who can pick up a phone and call her Mother just to say I love you.
I am the girl who can still make my sisters laugh and my brothers proud.
The girl who has a huge extended family who know me and pray for me and ask my advice
The girl who knows who made me and that his work is not a mistake but a thing of beauty.
I am the girl who knows her Father is the source of all that is good, and beautiful and pure, and strong.
I am the girl at peace with the woman I am.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
I ALMOST LET THE DAY GET AWAY
HE SAID I SHOULD WRITE SOMETHING EVERT DAY AND I AGREED.
I KNOW I'M NOT WHERE I WANT TO BE. THE WORDS DON'T TUMBLE OUT IN GENTLE WAVES. THEY HIDE, I HAVE TO COAX, AND PROD THEM TO APPEAR.
THEY THEY COME HALTINGLY, IN DRIPS AND STARTS... I'M NOT SURE IF THEY ARE THE RIGHT ONES BUT THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES I HAVE SO. SO I LET THEM COME, I EMBRACE WHAT THERE IS.
I HOPE TO BE BETTER ONE DAY.. I HOPE ONE DAY IT IS EFFORTLESS AND EASY.
BUT IS IT FOR ANYBODY?? SHOULD IT BE?
SO I WRITE, EVEN THOUGH IT DOESN'T FLOW FROM MY MIND TO MY FINGER TIPS, EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT SURE IT'S GOOD ENOUGH OR OF INTEREST TO ANYONE.
I WRITE ANYWAY, BECAUSE I PROMISED HIM AND BECAUSE I WANT THIS AND BECAUSE THE WORDS ARE SOMEWHERE INSIDE ME TRYING TO GET OUT.
I WRITE BECAUSE I CAN'T IGNORE IT, I WANT IT... EVEN THOUGH IT'S NOT PERFECT AND POLISHED.
IT IS A PART OF ME THAT I CAN'T IGNORE OR DENY.
I WRITE BECAUSE I HAVE TO.
I KNOW I'M NOT WHERE I WANT TO BE. THE WORDS DON'T TUMBLE OUT IN GENTLE WAVES. THEY HIDE, I HAVE TO COAX, AND PROD THEM TO APPEAR.
THEY THEY COME HALTINGLY, IN DRIPS AND STARTS... I'M NOT SURE IF THEY ARE THE RIGHT ONES BUT THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES I HAVE SO. SO I LET THEM COME, I EMBRACE WHAT THERE IS.
I HOPE TO BE BETTER ONE DAY.. I HOPE ONE DAY IT IS EFFORTLESS AND EASY.
BUT IS IT FOR ANYBODY?? SHOULD IT BE?
SO I WRITE, EVEN THOUGH IT DOESN'T FLOW FROM MY MIND TO MY FINGER TIPS, EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT SURE IT'S GOOD ENOUGH OR OF INTEREST TO ANYONE.
I WRITE ANYWAY, BECAUSE I PROMISED HIM AND BECAUSE I WANT THIS AND BECAUSE THE WORDS ARE SOMEWHERE INSIDE ME TRYING TO GET OUT.
I WRITE BECAUSE I CAN'T IGNORE IT, I WANT IT... EVEN THOUGH IT'S NOT PERFECT AND POLISHED.
IT IS A PART OF ME THAT I CAN'T IGNORE OR DENY.
I WRITE BECAUSE I HAVE TO.
Monday, February 8, 2016
THE NEIGHBORHOOD
The sky stretches on forever.. at sunset, orange and gold bursts of glory fill the horizon.
There is green wherever your eye rests, pines thrusting into the expanse of blue and white. Palm trees lining the perimeter like toy soldiers.
Little stunted bushes, and azaleas plants who have lost their flowers until Spring.
The sidewalk meanders for miles, peppered with couples strolling along with their fur babies, or sweaty hard cores jogging with steely resolve, or the ramblers, more interested in conversation than cardio.
The homes are like little doll houses around the square, pastels and muted colors in various shapes and sizes each with a patch of green in front. A porch filled with patio chairs and stylish planters.
Even with so much to see, wide open spaced are everywhere.
I can breath here. A little square park sits in the middle of it all
perfect for kite flying and star gazing. It's fountain gurgles night and day welcoming thirsty birds.
A short walk takes you to a pond.. home to two snowy white ducks who must sometimes share it with mallards on their way to somewhere more exotic.
It is a place of water and blue sky, and sunsets, and stars and sidewalks. The sounds of a dog barking , breezes blowing through the pines, frogs on a Summer night. Often a plane flies overhead rumbling and low but somehow pleasant sounding.
In December lights of every color twinkle outside the houses or draped across bushes.
Sometimes massive characters in primary colors stand grinning at nothing on the front lawns, in they morning they are in a heap like melted crayons.
Sometimes sparkles and showers of light and sound fill the July sky
and children shriek and shout with the excitement of seeing fire and color explode into the heavens
It is called Godley Park.. the name is reverent but welcoming.
My home, where I belong.
There is green wherever your eye rests, pines thrusting into the expanse of blue and white. Palm trees lining the perimeter like toy soldiers.
Little stunted bushes, and azaleas plants who have lost their flowers until Spring.
The sidewalk meanders for miles, peppered with couples strolling along with their fur babies, or sweaty hard cores jogging with steely resolve, or the ramblers, more interested in conversation than cardio.
The homes are like little doll houses around the square, pastels and muted colors in various shapes and sizes each with a patch of green in front. A porch filled with patio chairs and stylish planters.
Even with so much to see, wide open spaced are everywhere.
I can breath here. A little square park sits in the middle of it all
perfect for kite flying and star gazing. It's fountain gurgles night and day welcoming thirsty birds.
A short walk takes you to a pond.. home to two snowy white ducks who must sometimes share it with mallards on their way to somewhere more exotic.
It is a place of water and blue sky, and sunsets, and stars and sidewalks. The sounds of a dog barking , breezes blowing through the pines, frogs on a Summer night. Often a plane flies overhead rumbling and low but somehow pleasant sounding.
In December lights of every color twinkle outside the houses or draped across bushes.
Sometimes massive characters in primary colors stand grinning at nothing on the front lawns, in they morning they are in a heap like melted crayons.
Sometimes sparkles and showers of light and sound fill the July sky
and children shriek and shout with the excitement of seeing fire and color explode into the heavens
It is called Godley Park.. the name is reverent but welcoming.
My home, where I belong.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
WHAT DO I SAY???
I don't know what to say. The feelings are there, the desire is there but the words are hiding.
They are somewhere beyond my reach. My brain searches for them like four leaf clovers among ordinary grass. Sometimes I find one, pure perfect and alone. I pluck it and then what?
I make my living throwing words on a script, telling the hard, ugly news of the day to people half listening while they cook dinner.
What I write is not the real me, those are the work a day words, the shallow, treat them like your friend words.
The real me comes out only with the rare words, the elusive ones. That is the writing that still escapes me. That is what I long for.
How do I put my heart, or my hope into words??? How do I express my soul?? Those are the words my brain reaches for.. they are there...but do not come easily.
They are treasure, worth searching for, worth finding.
They are somewhere beyond my reach. My brain searches for them like four leaf clovers among ordinary grass. Sometimes I find one, pure perfect and alone. I pluck it and then what?
I make my living throwing words on a script, telling the hard, ugly news of the day to people half listening while they cook dinner.
I turn phrases, use puns and scare them with faux warnings about over exaggerated dangers. I write as if I am a caring friend but I am a stranger who only wants your eyes and ears for 30 minutes.
What I write is not the real me, those are the work a day words, the shallow, treat them like your friend words.
The real me comes out only with the rare words, the elusive ones. That is the writing that still escapes me. That is what I long for.
How do I put my heart, or my hope into words??? How do I express my soul?? Those are the words my brain reaches for.. they are there...but do not come easily.
They are treasure, worth searching for, worth finding.
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