Howdy my fine friends, picture this, if you will:

One of your very favorite folkslingers, me of course, leaves his ol' guitar on the rainy sidewalk and is guzzling peppermint tea in a Tully's Coffee Shop. A third of my body is lounging in a chair, the remainder sprawled jellyfish-like upon what is supposed to be a community ottoman, shared by people in four opposing chairs. I am exhibiting the absolute worst posture the human body is capable of in my desire to take full ownership of the ottoman. If there is a chiropractor in the room, he is salivating at the potential I present.

I've never had occasion to think about it before, but I really do not care for community ottomans - precisely because one cannot truly and utterly experience full relaxation mode while at the same time being considerate about the space others might require. So to avoid that predicament, I've exaggerated my sprawl, spreading out unashamedly across the vast block of furniture, and have claimed the entire acreage as my own. If we were to find out later that Tully's has security cameras located about the room, particularly above me, the sight of my slack form might do one of two things: 1.) cause you to recoil in horror at the human octopus, or 2.) win me a full scholarship to Cirque du Soleil University.

People flood into Tully's, as they tend to on a rainy Seattle day. They tap the rain off their umbrellas and look around for a place to sit. Sit anywhere you like podnas, I'm thinkin'. But this ottoman is mine. Limp as my body appears, I have a grip on that block of furniture a crowbar couldn't budge. Many who enter wish to lay out books and tablets in order to study. Others seem to want to open up laptops such as mine and write some stupid blog of their own. I pretend not to see them. I don't see the burly guy with the turbulent gunny sack full of. . . what? Monkeys? I absolutely refuse to focus on the jittery woman with two tousle-headed boys swingin' little plastic baseball bats. She glances at the cozy community seating area where I am ensconced - clearly considering whether I might be her default babysitter while she sips a cappuccino - but I foretell this and snort so loudly that she jumps and the little boys drop their bats. That was a close one.

Languid though I may appear, I am in rigid control of the situation. I do have a slight problem though; I need to pee. Really, really badly. At some point in the span of time between when one just sort of needs to pee and when one must absolutely pee or die, it becomes nearly impossible for me to continue to pose in such a casual way. I doomed to impersonate ol' Faithful and my posture is becoming less lax, taking on more of a frenetic, hermit crab-like appearance. I know if I leave my ottoman unattended, it may invite others to come over and share the large, inviting surface. That's unacceptable. I need it all. I must have it to myself. I don't even know why, it's not like I'm afraid to brush up against other people. I just flew to Texas in the middle seat in a full airplane and was not in the least troubled by the forearms on either side of me. (though I did grow weary of the footsie-action, I'll admit) I'm not one of those people who, when I accidentally touch you as we brush past in a store, feels that I must wildly apologize for my indiscretion. But for some reason, this footrest is special to me and I want it all for myself. If I could sneak it out of here I'd take it home in a minute.

Which gives me an idea. I'll take it to the restroom with me! That's not wierd, is it? I don't think so. I search my memory, trying to recall seeing fellers haul rockin' chairs and piano stools into the urinal and I believe I've seen it before. I'm going to go for it. I chart my course. Let's see, I have to squeeze between two tables of people and then down a little hallway. Without making a big deal of it, I slither off the surface and crouch down, reach under and check the heft of the ottoman. Whoa! It's heavier than I had presumed. I'm going to have to scoot it. It's probably going to squeal against the floor, which means that I must make a high pitched sound to conceal the noise. I lean back and make a big show of stretching, letting rip a big Howard Dean holler as I do. "Yeee-heeee! Aheeeyaaa!" I grin famously. (I'm not even sure what that means) I've set the tone for my task. The room is aware that there is a squealer in their midst, so now I must work that in my favor as I push and pull and manhandle the ottoman into the bathroom. But if someone tries to stop me, what will be my excuse?

I decide the best answer is the most obvious one: I'll pretend to be a Repair Man from Sears. Is that brilliant or what? What could be more perfect? Shielding my creativity from onlookers, I draw a remarkably authentic-looking Sears name tag on my shirt pocket flap. That is impressive, podnas! I stand so all can see I'm there in my official capacity as a Sears rep, and then I bend at the waist to lift one side. I scoff at those "doctors" who say "use your legs to lift". What a joke. Cave men did it the old way and so do I. I reach under the big leather block and heave with all my might. I don't know what all those cracking and popping sounds are, but they sure seem close behind me. That rush in my ears is a trip! What the heck caused that? Anyway, I'm standing now, woozey, swaying, but pleased overall that I've managed to get the big block up on it's side. Now I can scoot it. I throw my hip into it and grunt with every bit of brute strength in my body. It moves maybe an inch. I have renewed respect for the slaves who built the pyramids. I'd forgotten all about 'em until now. I take a moment to give thanks for what they did and then I put my shoulder to the ottoman and roar from the core of my being. "Heee-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" The ottoman actually moves! Only a few inches, but it's a hopeful sign.

Let me tell you podnas, scooting a 200-pound ottoman to the urinal with you is a feat that should be immortalized in the Guiness Book o' Records. Or at least on America's Got Talent! I'm tellin' you, I stood there so proud. And relieved, o' course. But I was surprisingly too tired to lug it back, so I just left 'er right there on the tile floor in the men's bathroom. I gave one last lunge and scootched it over in front of one of the stalls. The guy with the bag o' monkeys was in there and I thought it might be fun for him to have to figure an alternate way out.

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The thing that has made the most difference in this recording process is what has been going on inside me these last three years. Through some miracle beyond my dreams, I found Patricia O'Driscoll, the woman I will spend the rest of my life with. I had long ago thought I'd never get to say those words, but it happened. We met in the process of creating a benefit concert for the folks who were hurt by Hurricane Katrina. We thought we were giving something to the people who so needed help at that time, but really, we were being given each other. I've always written and sung my songs with great love, but to record them as so much love is blossoming inside me, and in a time when my sweetheart and I are learning such compassion together, all of this kindness and gratitude pours into the songs and they become living things, like beautiful trees taking root and reaching up into the sky. I know you'll be able to hear that in the music. When you are allowed such a beautiful love, it just wants to overflow into every relationship you have.

I recently played a concert in Denver and invited people to bring someone whom they wish to make peace with. Many did so and it gratified me to think that folks would reach out to someone they felt estranged from and ask them to come and listen to my music for an evening.

It occurred to me that that's what my music is for - it is there for inner healing and forgiveness. It is there to bring comfort and trust and a reminder that life is good and a nudge toward remembering to be grateful to be alive. In my concerts coming up this year I am going to continue this theme - Making peace with yourself or someone you wish to heal with. Whether you can come to one of my concerts or not, I hope you'll hold that thought and see if you feel moved to make your own peace.

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Howdy my summertime friends,

I did something this morning for which I could possibly be arrested. I walked completely naked into my front yard and stood in the rain. It was five a.m. and still dark outside and there was no one on the street or sidewalk to see me. (dang it!) I was standing on the porch listening to the rare music of rain in August and I felt the sudden call to let the rain fall on me. All of me, to let it speckle my bare shoulders and run down my body and remind me that I am part of everything; the damp, grassy ground under my feet and the dripping leaves of trees and the pre-dawn breeze as soft as breath wafting around between houses.

In case it turns out later that some of my neighbors were indeed up in the darkness and staring with astonishment through parted curtains at me, I think I'd better make a point of asking whether anyone has seen those new flesh colored jammies they sell at Eddie Bauer. I'll say no more, they'll just put two and two together and assume they saw me in mine. I'm good at gettin' out of a jam.

We have had only one other night of rain in the last month and I feel parched. I always chuckle at the people here who complain about rain, as if we'd have these verdant, tree covered mountains and flowing rivers and leafy streets without it. I can honestly say that in 25 years of living in Seattle, I have gotten tired of the rain a tiny handful of times. And even then I was clearly an ungrateful fool. Arrogant enough to fall into that line of thinking where we consider certain weather to be inconvenient for our plans. The way I prefer to think of it is that there is no such thing as "nasty" weather. It's all good, it's all of God, it's all our great fortune to be living here.

There is a song on my soon-to-be-released CD, in which I talk about my boyhood and my thrill of the wind and love of all kinds of weather. The song is called Seattle Skies and it's possibly my favorite on the record. Here's how it starts:

There have been only two or three times in all my years of song writing when I've written a line of lyrics and started instantly crying. This was one of them. When I wrote "I thought of weather as my friend", tears just poured out. I was crying because I really have regarded Nature and the seasons, the changes in weather, especially the rain as my loving companions in life. No matter what I've gone through or where I've traveled, I have always loved the wind and rain and snow and every kind of weather that comes between. And, as you might suspect by my writing you this in the five a.m. hour, I love mornings. Which is sometimes difficult because I like the evenings too. Therefore, I've become a nap man. I can nap with the best of 'em, podnas. Here is another verse from Seattle Skies.
 

I haven't written many songs in all my years of composing that touch me the way those lines do. But what pleases me the most is that it's my sweetheart's favorite song on my new CD. It's a fulfilling thing to find that something you have done in your life is deeply satisfying and inspiring to the woman you love. I feel like it's a gift to me that I was allowed to let something flow through me that could make her so happy.

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Mom lives in a little tree-lined, one storey apartment complex in Tyler, Texas. She can barely get around but to keep from going insane she will grit her teeth through the pain and hobble out a few feet to a big, shady Live Oak and sit on the bench with her sweet dog, Molly. That day there were two friendly old fellas out there that are always palling around and waving to folks, sharing jokes and making everyone feel welcome. Willie is in his sixties, has no legs, zooms around the neighborhood in his wheel chair waving and grinning at people all day. Buddy is in his eighties and, according to Mom, "waddles back and forth from his apartment across the street."

Mom came over with Molly and said, "What are you boys up to, no good?"

They didn't reply at all and mom spoke again. "What's going on?"

They both looked glum. Willie finally looked up and said, "Aw, we wuz just thinkin', tryin' to figger out some way we could get us a popsicle."

Mom just lit up at the opportunity and said, "Well, I'll get you a popsicle! I'm going up to Brookshires for some groceries in a few minutes and I'll just bring you some popsicles back."

"You would?" they seemed incredulous that she would actually make their hot summer daydream come true, two old men as excited as six year-olds.

"Well sure! Just wait here and I'll be back in a little bit."

Going into a grocery store, or any store, is a huge challenge for mom. Most disabled parking in Tyler is shockingly far from the entrance of stores. Fortunately, once you get inside, most of the big ones have scooters she can use. She bought the few items she came for and then went to the frozen food section and found the largest box of popsicles in the store. She bought the 20-popsicle variety pack and was ecstatic that she could do this for Willie and Buddy.

When she returned Willie came charging up in his wheelchair and said, "I was watching for you, Shirley." He lit up when she showed him the big box of popsicles and gave out a whoop and then headed with them across the street to share with Buddy their great treasure.

What moved me so much about her story was not just the idea of a man in his sixties and another in his eighties sitting around like two little kids wishing for a popsicle. What touched me most was what Mom told me afterwards.

"You know son," she said, "I was just praying and asking God to show me something I could do to help someone. When I'm in the most pain and going through the hardest day, sometimes He'll place someone in my path that I can do something for and it just gives me a reason to live. I just takes my mind away from my pain when I get to help someone else."

So that's why a grown man looking very much like me could be seen by passersby to be crying in the front yard that day, my big mug of limeade sitting next to me under my walnut tree and tears streaming freely down my cheeks. And it's also why I stood naked in the rain this early morning, knowing what mom is going through and just wanting to be as simple and clear and filled with gratitude for my life as a man could be. It seemed like something I should share with you.

If you feel like taking a minute and saying a prayer for great healing and the highest good to come to my mom, I'd really appreciate it. Shirley Tomlinson is one of the best people I've ever met and I'd love to know you were sending some loving thoughts her way.

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November 8, 2008

Howdy my friends,

     November's rain and wind and hail has begun to lay waste to the most beautiful autumn I can ever remember seeing here in Seattle. Now that we finally know who is to become our new president, it almost feels as if the brilliant explosion of colors this fall was a celebration of what was to come. I can think of it that way if I want to. Nobody can stop me, dang it.

     As you can see from my homepage announcement, my new CD is finally here! After two years of recording and listening and mixing and mastering, it had almost begun to feel like it was never going to happen. We thought we'd be through with it this summer and have it out by August, but in July my sweet mom fell ill and within six weeks she had passed away. She'd been so excited about my new CD and she told my sweetheart, Patricia, that her greatest sadness was that my joy at releasing this new record would be tempered with my grief at her illness and passing. That's how much my mom loved me.

On Orcas Island with my sweetheart, Patricia