He was the author of the faith that could make the mountains move

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

While playing with this site’s settings on Thanksgiving, I came across several unpublished posts. I’m not sure what held me back from hitting “publish” two years ago, but this entry still rings true. It’s also remarkable how much has changed since I wrote it, on Nov. 28, 2008.

After several days filled with family and friends, tonight is this girl’s night in. And it’s time, at last, that I can listen to Christmas music guilt-free.

I waited until I returned home from today’s errands, then began with the newest of my three favorite Christmas albums. Red Mountain Church‘s Silent Night carried me through cooking dinner, and Snow Angels by Over the Rhine accompanied me as I ate, then straightened up my apartment.

Finally, I turned on Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God, dragged my Christmas decorations out of the attic and launched into the annual task of evaluating each item. The star ornament I bought last year hangs in my bedroom year-round. The Pottery Barn poinsettias and mistletoe always go out first, followed this year by my tree topper. (Though treeless, I found it a home perched among the books on my to read shelf–located in my kitchen, so it’s positioned for maximum viewability.) I continued lifting boxes of ornaments out of the Rubbermaid tub.

And then I uncovered four packages of Christmas letterhead stationery.

It’s funny how the smallest items send you back in time. I bought this stationery, decorated with Luke 2:11 and John 1:16, in an after-Christmas sale in (I’m guessing) 2001. By the time Christmas returned, I expected to be on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ. This paper would serve as the background for my December prayer letter to my ministry supporters.

Life so rarely turns out how we expect! I interviewed with Crusade that December, was accepted to staff, received a staff account number and the information I needed to raise support for the 2002 summer training. And then, a month before graduation, I decided not to go on staff.

It’s a decision I’ve never regretted. I was to be campus staff, aka a professional extrovert. It wasn’t a good fit, and I am so glad life has turned out as it has.

But it is so different than I imagined when I bought that stationery.

I am in love with something invisible

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m generally a rather organized, precise girl. So when I intended to renew my Oxford American subscription, I was fairly sure that I had followed through. Apparently not; I continued receiving renewal notices, warning me that I was in danger of missing the annual music issue. (Don’t you worry. Not only did I send in my two-year, automatic renewal notice–with the bonus of a gift subscription for my mother–this morning, I also pre-ordered the music issue. This year’s focus is Alabama music. I’ve anticipated it for months.)

Meanwhile, as I began reading the December issue of Esquire, I noticed an interesting notation on my subscription label. April 2013.

I’m glad I got something right–a couple of times over.

It was the air you breathed that fanned the flame

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

“You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life.” –Birdie to Kathleen, You’ve Got Mail

Travel expands your view of the world, sometimes showing you a different way of life, and sometimes showing you that it could be your own. After four days in New York City, shared with people I love, I remember that Birmingham isn’t the only city where life happens. It’s even possible that it’s not the only city for me.

I realize how counter-intuitive that sounds. New York is the stuff of dreams, literature and screens, big and small. Birmingham is typically not. But I’ve found my home and dreams in Alabama, with a career that satisfies me, a small group of friends I love and volunteer work I’m passionate about.

For years, New York has been the thing I don’t want. It’s fast-paced and high pressure–traits I’ve captured just fine on my own, thanks, without a city to reinforce them. But seeing the city with my sisters and my friends Josh and Dan reminded me that so much contentment comes from being around people who care about and challenge you.

I may be a little more susceptible to that right now, because I have had trouble connecting with a lot of people around me lately. That disconnect seems to come and go with different seasons of life. The truth is, I love Birmingham and am committed to it for the foreseeable future.

But there are other possibilities out there. And maybe it’s healthy for me to see that.

Head full of doubt, road full of promise

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Today I had one of those moments when you realize you’re becoming your parents. I usually love those; I’m perfectly content as an almost-perfect hybrid of my homebody mom and dreamer dad. But I’m afraid even my dad would be disappointed by today’s epiphany.

I don’t recall specifically how we got there, but this afternoon my boss, a coworker and I were in my boss’ office, listening to her stories of visiting the Czech Republic and Slovakia. As she rhapsodized about towns frozen in time and picturesque scenery that seemed straight off a set for Cinderella, I suddenly realized: I may never see these things myself. I may never travel outside of my own country. I may have already become my parents.

My dad, in particular, is bothered by his lack of travel experience. I barely remember a family trip to the Birmingham International Airport when I was just a tiny thing. Daddy was off to Michigan for a church mission trip, and I stood at the window, waving goodbye.

For the longest time, that was the most exotic trip I could recall my dad taking. Last year he accepted a new job that required him to spend two weeks in Denver for training. He was nervous about the cold and not particularly excited about the trip. But Mom was thinking of flying out for a long weekend to visit, and I did my best to convince them that this was the best idea they’d had in a long time. I’ve been to and through Colorado several times, and a long weekend in Telluride was one of the most magical experiences of my still-young life. (Plus, that dry cold really is different. Even to this Alabama-born, Florida-raised girl, it wasn’t so bad.) Mom and Dad listened to my advice, and sure enough they had a wonderful weekend.

Earlier this year, he was flying back west for more training. It was a week or so after I spent a day in Washington, D.C., and Dad just happened to have a layover in Dulles International Airport. It didn’t take much to persuade him to leave the airport, take public transit to the National Mall and at least spend a few minutes taking in the nation’s capitol. He agreed that a glimpse of D.C. was worth returning to airport security.

There’s so much my dad still wants to see. He’s never even been to New York City to visit my younger sister. But with a mortgage, bills and a kid still in high school (for seven more months), travel hasn’t been in the cards.

And though I take after my mom’s homebody tendencies–I’ll spend part of my upcoming vacation sitting on my couch with a stack of books–there’s so much world out there that I want to experience. It costs money, though, so much more than I have been able to set aside for such an occasion. My travels have taken me to New York, Seattle, San Diego and Telluride, but save for a few hours in Cozumel, those trips may not take me beyond our nation’s borders.

My mental to-save-for list is too long for my liking. The rainy day fund will never be big enough to make me feel secure. I suppose that’s life for a worrier. But I also hope to save for a car to eventually replace my ’99 sedan. One day I might like to buy a house. Or a couch. I may someday get married, and I don’t expect Mom and Dad to spring for that occasion. I’m not going to begin saving for college funds for unborn children from an unmet husband, but I will say it seems sometimes that the list of reasons to save could stretch out endlessly.

So where does a trip to Europe fit in? How do I make my way to Bali, and the little town my friend Jamie insists would be my southeastern Asia spot? Will I ever visit friends in Africa? Even if I muster the courage to spend weeks in Mexico, trying to understand the conditions that lead people to risk everything to immigrate to the United States, legally or not, would I have the means to do so?

As with anything in life, it’s easier to accept failure than to try and risk success. But if I’m going to tackle any of my dream list, I’ve got to make squirelling money away a higher priority. I’ve taken a month off of eating out, and that may be a start. But there’s so much happening in this city, and so much that’s free or cheap, that I’ve got no excuse for not trying a little harder. I think it would make my mom and daddy proud.

I wasn’t ready to go, I’m never ready to go

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m intense. I know this about myself, and most of the time I’ll freely admit it. Lately that’s manifested itself in the lists I make, trying to capture order in my little life. Birmingham bucket list (so far only the Zoo, because that’s what I was discussing when I started the list). Activities I belong to (DISCO, MORE, RMC, EOL). Activities I’m taking a break from (CG, PTTR). My essential friends (I’ll leave that one to the imagination). My 30th birthday party guest list (that’s still in process–the party’s not till July).

But today, my intensity showed up in the serious thought I gave to cleaning my office. I’ve worked in journalism for five and a half years, and I believe I still have files for every story I’ve written in that time. (If you figure an average of four stories a week during my year and a half of newspaper writing, an average of 10 stories a month during my first two and a half years of magazine writing and an average closer to five stories a month over the past year and a half, that’s easily 700 stories. And I’m not even counting blog posts–for which, mercifully, I’ve mostly avoided filing away physical notes.)

None of the friends I’ve surveyed have an exact system for determining when they should let go of these reams of paper. Yes, I’m looking for a precise methodology, because that’s what I do. And of course many of my friends are also in media, because we understand each other’s insanity. (Or because we’re too incestuous to make friends outside our industry. I’m not sure. My grad school professors worried about us.) So lacking rhyme or reason for both discarding and retaining files, today I opened a drawer and pulled everything out.

One year of files filled two trash cans.

Though I’m still worried that I was too quick to toss things, it mostly felt good to let go of the past, and of the clutter. My office is a bit of a cave. We’ve got two cubicles jammed in there, and I only have three full file drawers. My 2010 folders have been crammed between magazines atop the extra filing cabinet I rescued from storage, and I don’t have a suitable place for a guest to sit. It’s all very orderly, but I often feel like the stacks of paper are closing in on me. I won’t take meetings in there; the extra chair I keep handy is primarily so a coworker can fill me in on the previous night’s dates.

So as much as it worried me, and as much discussion as it prompted, today was a milestone. I let go of a little control and gained some freedom in return.

And then I rushed home to blog about it. Maybe that (and the fact that I have semi-colon artwork–awesome semi-colon artwork–in my office) is indicative of how much control I could stand to relinquish.

Sometimes you just need somebody else

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Originally posted on Birmingham Box Set, Feb. 8, 2010. Reposted here because it’s what I need today.

As much time as I spend bouncing from concert to fundraiser to party, the truth of the matter is that I’m an introvert. I love spending full weekends curled up in bed with my cat, a book and a cup of coffee.

Two months ago, I moved in with a roommate after two and a half years living on my own. I loved living alone. I had my own space, everything was just as I wanted it, and coming home was like a little retreat. It’s not that I don’t have those things in my new house. But I opted to live with a roommate again in part because I am so prone to retreating when something’s on my mind. Sometimes my introverted tendencies get the best of me.

This is a playlist for those times.

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Nashville’s Lightning 100 dubbed July 26 “McCartney Monday,” and the mid-day DJ filled the lunch hour with all Paul McCartney, all live versions, all by request. I stopped my car and texted the request email when I heard this, then sat in my car in front of the restaurant where I was meeting a friend, hoping to hear my request. When “Helter Skelter” came up third (after “Venus and Mars Rock Show” and “The Long and Winding Road”), I danced in my seat and celebrated my song being played. I felt like a teenager who finally got to tape her new favorite song from the airwaves.

And that’s how I felt throughout the Paul McCartney concert that night. That’s the power of The Beatles’ music: It brings out that pure, simple love of a good song. There’s plenty to digest, lyrics to think through, guitar solos to pick apart. But it’s also just good music in a way that even a child with a penchant for Top 40 can recognize.

Paul seemed to enjoy the music as much as the thousands of fans gathered for his first-ever Nashville show. He and his band calmly, quietly walked on stage, but they immediately kicked up the rock with “Venus and Mars Rock Show.” Several songs in, Paul said he wanted a minute to take it all in. He slung his Hofner over his shoulder, stepped away from the mic and gazed out into the crowd as we went wild. Paul McCartney was taking us in.

The mood remained exuberant as Paul and the band switched from Beatles tunes to Wings songs to his solo material. The set was carefullly paced, with an interlude of quieter, piano-based songs (“The Long and Winding Road,” for one) followed shortly by tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison. As Paul played “Something” on the ukelele, the band returned to stage and kicked in, a moment so overwhelming it brought tears to my eyes.

There were several moments that brought me near to crying: “Blackbird” and his brief discussion of the American Civil Rights movement. The crowd sing-along during “Hey Jude.” (How cool to say that, for one night, my voice joined Paul McCartney’s!) When he spotted a fan whose sign asked him to sign the tattoo of his Hofner on her back, then brought the crying, shaking woman on stage to do just that, I wanted to cry and hug her.

There was also a lot of laughter. The screen behind the song showed Beatles Rock Band footage during “Got to Get You Into My Life.” Paul is still a showman, posing for the thousands of cameras every several minutes. When he flashed a thumbs up or winked, you could see the same boy doing that 40 years ago. He brought a young Mexican fan on stage for “Get Back.” The boy didn’t speak much English, but he sang it–and had no problem shaking his tush to the beat. I couldn’t help but laugh during the pyrotechnics of “Live and Let Die,” (I could feel the heat from the nosebleeds!) and my cheeks hurt from smiling (while I shook my own little tush) during “Helter Skelter.”

But the best, most overwhelming moment of all was the show’s conclusion. The band segued from “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)” into “The End,” with Paul changing several of the “love you”s to “we really love you.” It was a celebratory cap on a special night. And as they shredded those guitars and the awesome graphics from the conclusion of Beatles Rock Band played, I literally went weak in the knees. There was one of my favorite musicians–the one who I wanted to see more than anyone alive, and who could only be topped by the band that made him famous–playing one of my favorite songs, a song that makes me stop and take it in even when listening to a mere recording, from one of my favorite albums of all time. There, in the room with me. I’ve only known and loved these songs, from the band that revolutionized music, for three years. How lucky am I to have a lifetime ahead with them?

Set list:

  1. Venus and Mars Rock Show
  2. Jet
  3. All My Loving
  4. Letting Go
  5. Got to Get You Into My Life
  6. Highway
  7. Let Me Roll It
  8. Long and Winding Road
  9. 1985
  10. Let ‘Em In
  11. My Love
  12. I’m Looking Through You/Tequila
  13. Two of Us
  14. Blackbird
  15. Here Today
  16. Dance Tonight
  17. Mrs. Vanderbilt
  18. Eleanor Rigby
  19. Ram On
  20. Something
  21. Sing the Changes
  22. Band on the Run
  23. Obladi, Oblada
  24. Back in the USSR
  25. I Got A Feeling
  26. Paperback Writer
  27. A Day in the Life/Give Peace a Chance
  28. Let It Be
  29. Live and Let Die
  30. Hey Jude
    First encore:
  31. Day Tripper
  32. Lady Madonna
  33. Get Back
    Second encore:
  34. Yesterday
  35. Helter Skelter
  36. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (reprise)
  37. The End

Reviews:
The Tennessean
American Songwriter
Nashville Scene
Spinner

My life with The Beatles:
“It’s so hard to reason with you,” a tribute to “Please Please Me” and enduring Beatlemania
“All we are saying is give peace a chance,” or how the Beatles saved my friendship with Adam
“It’s a thousand pages, give or take a few,” and several hundred of them are about the Beatles
“I’m writing you to catch you up on places I’ve been,” in which the Beatles make the drive to New Orleans oh-so-much more bearable
“How do I feel by the end of the day?”–better with the Beatles.
“The more I think about it, the more I know it’s true” that the Beatles make me happy.

And we’ll remember this when we are old and ancient

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

This is a concert experience so excellent it bears repeating.

I always tell people that the Ryman Auditorium is such a great concert venue, I could sing on stage and people would still applaud. There’s not a bad seat in that room, and there’s a certain magic to it. I’m not sure if that’s more because of history or acoustics. Either way, it’s a wonderful place to see a concert.

So I was thrilled months ago when it was announced that the Decemberists would be playing the Ryman in September. I’ve desperately wanted to see them on their current tour, during which they’re playing The Hazards of Love in its entirety, but their I had already been told a Birmingham stop was unlikely this time. I bought tickets immediately, so anxious to make plans that I didn’t even check my seats. It’s the Ryman. How could I go wrong?

An hour later I got curious and pulled up my confirmation email. Front row. Center.

Before the concert began, my friend Monica and I sat in our oh-so-close seats and discussed our expectations for the evening. We admitted we set the bar high: If this wasn’t the best show we attended this year, we would be disappointed. (And we both attend a lot of concerts.) But here was the thing. We were certain we wouldn’t be let down. The Hazards of Love is such an epic album that we knew the night would be memorable.

The Decemberists are apparently a brilliant live band (this was my first time to see them, but I’ve since heard that from multiple people). My heart was racing as they came on stage, and every moment of The Hazards of Love set was just right. When Shara Worden came to the front for her first solo, she instantly lifted the energy of the very excited but very polite crowd. (My mantra is now, “Shara Worden is the very definition of bad ass.”) “The Rake’s Song” was one of the evening’s highlights. I’d been anxious to see the majority of the band behind drums, and it was incredible. I thought the guys in the folding chairs set up before the front rows of pews were going to lose it.

The band took an intermission after The Hazards of Love before a second “greatest hits” set. I turned to Monica and said, “The only way this could get better would be if we were in the center of all the music.”

I’m not as familiar with the Decemberists’ back catalog, but I thoroughly enjoyed the second set. They finally got us on our feet with some gentle admonishing; I think everyone remained seated during the bulk of  The Hazards of Love simply out of consideration for the rest of the audience. But now we were on our feet, singing along and cheering as Colin Meloy bantered with us.

I’m not a fan of standing ovations, and frequently plop back in my seat if I don’t think the performance merited one. This time, I was on my feet until the band returned for the encore. The final song of the evening was “Sons and Daughters,” and at the conclusion of the song Meloy prepared to lead us in a sing along. But before we could join in chorus on the song’s final line, he stepped to the front of the stage and said something to the effect of, “You guys. Get up here.”

I looked at Monica, wide-eyed, and took off. About 100 audience members clamored onto the stage. I looked up into the balcony of the Ryman as we sang, “Hear all the bombs fade away.” Sure enough, I was singing and they were still cheering.

And then, everyone on stage spontaneously began jumping up and down. It was such a communal moment; no one started it, but I don’t know that you could have remained planted on the ground unless you had a very large instrument holding you there.

At last, I was inside the music.

It’s not as if it’s a matter of will

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The plan was simple. One year, no book buying (save for a three book exception, meant to stave off the seductive appeal of the forbidden). After filling my backseat with purchases from one book sale, I thought I needed a break from book buying. Otherwise I may never get caught up on my book reading.

That worked well for a time. I bought my first book at Square Books in Oxford, Miss., a place that begged for just such an exception. The Paris Review Interviews Vol. 1 is the perfect souvenir for this literary town. Weeks later, exception two came into play: The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, on sale at Seattle’s Elliot Bay Books.

Then there was last night. Yes, last night brought book three. And four. And five. All the way up to 12. And I don’t feel a bit bad about it.

Technically, I fell off this particular wagon months back. I spotted three hardback copies of John Green’s Looking for Alaska on a sale table, and I couldn’t leave them lying there. I purchased all three, confident that I could find them homes. (I already owned two copies of the book, myself.)

But that didn’t count, not really. The books weren’t for me, after all. Neither was the hardback copy of Corduroy, purchased for a friend’s daughter’s birthday last month. By those rules, one of the books I bought last night doesn’t count either. When I saw a $3 hardback copy of a Charles Schulz biography, I knew my 16-year-old brother had to have it.

So then I’m only at 11 books for the year. Is that better?

This is what happened: It’s been a busy summer, one full of change. I haven’t been reading much as a result (a very strange circumstance, indeed). When a friend emailed yesterday, asking if I wanted to go to another library book sale, I said yes. I was ready for a little rule-breaking. (The fact that this counts as rebellion in my world is likely indicative of how big a nerd I am.)

We met at her house for a glass and a half of wine then headed out, hoping for a couple of good buys. Though I exhibited a fair amount of discretion, I still took home 10 books totaling $15. I broke the rules, and my only regret is not knowing which book to read first.

  1. Downtown Owl by Chuck Klosterman (The only Klosterman I didn’t own.)
  2. The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank (Often referenced as the original chick lit, and known for its author’s huge advance. I’m curious.)
  3. A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson
  4. The Reason for God by Timothy Keller
  5. My Losing Season by Pat Conroy
  6. Proof by David Auburn
  7. The Little, Brown Handbook (Buying a 1986 handbook from a publisher I admire surely marks me as a full-fledged word nerd. Even more so if I read it. But it seems like a handy reference, doesn’t it?)
  8. That’s What I Like (About the South) Edited by George Garrett and Paul Ruffin
  9. Schulz and Peanuts by David Michalies
  10. Southern Living 1981 Annual Recipes (My mother bought me a copy of this book in 1981, the year I was born. I lost my original copy in the midst of too many moves and have been hunting another since. The discovery was made even better when I realized the book was only $1!)

Hey look, I’m not weighed down

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

There are a lot of ways I know I’m busy. It’s the way I tend to live my life (although I haven’t quite figured out why–perhaps it’s the Type A thing). My birthday card from my grandparents was even titled “Ode to a Busy Person.”

And at present, the most glaring example of my busy-ness is the long list of unplayed podcasts in my iTunes. Silly, isn’t it? But I’ve barely listened to a one of them this month.

I queud up the most recent episode of The Splendid Table on the drive home Friday night, and was quickly reminded of how much I love that show and public radio in general. Here’s hoping I can slow it down for the rest of the summer–or at the very least, fit podcasts into my drive time.

American Public Media’s The Splendid Table (3)

B&N Meet the Writers Series (2)
Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help
Alice Hoffman, author of The Story Sisters

Book Lust with Nancy Pearl (1)
Featuring Susan Wiggs

New York Times Book Review (2)

Little, Brown and Company (1)
Luis Alberto Urrea, author of The Devil’s Highway

NPR All Songs Considered (4)
The Best Music of 2009 (so far)
Discoveries from the Pitchfork Music Festival
Monsters of Folk
Merge Records Turns 20

NPR Books Podcast (3)

NPR Live Concerts from the All Songs Considered Podcast (5)
Dave Douglas Brass Ecstasy Tiny Desk Concert
Bill Callahan Tiny Desk Concert
Sonic Youth
Maria Taylor Tiny Desk Concert
The Avett Brothers Tiny Desk Concert

NPR This I Believe (2)
Returning to What’s Natural
The Questions We Must Ask

NPR Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me (3)

Paste Culture Club (2)
Including the Harry Potter podcast!

Some New Trend (2)

This I Believe (3)
Colleen Shaddox
Jackie Robinson
Kay Redfield Jamison

(The other thing this proves? I’m a big book and NPR nerd.)