There’s got to be a love that’s stronger than our fear of everything being out of control

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’ve got a weakness for several things–at work, they have appropriately dubbed them my soap boxes. Letterpress, words and (of course) Southerners rank near the top of the list. I fell in love with this little $5 poster at Kentuck last fall, and have found myself increasingly enamored since I framed it and hung it by my front door. I’ll often stop and re-read it on my way out, or even cross the room in the middle of dinner just to take another look.

These words (an excerpt from his 1949 Nobel Prize banquet speech), and my Ole-Miss-English-grad coworker, are convincing me that I need to give Faulkner another chance. 

He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.

—William Faulkner

Let’s move across the ocean and pitch the tent stakes wide

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

It’s not yet warm enough to share a beer with friends on someone’s back porch, but that’s one of many moments I crave as spring begins to creep in. I can find several hours warm enough to leave my back door open, allowing my cat to lounge in sunshine or shade as she desires. This weekend was perfect for walking, first around the botanical gardens and then at an outdoor mall. It’s been just pleasant enough for me to threaten to wear only skirts and dresses for the rest of my life, and to justify the purchase of a new summer dress. (I’ve already said several times, I may wear it every day this summer!) I may have to start taking lunch at the park, in the gardens or maybe at the courtyard of the church next door to my office. I simply can’t stand the fluorescent lights of the break room or the food court for long!

 

And if nights are still too cool for a backyard party? At least I can simulate the experience, with heaters and canvas walls, on the covered back deck of the J Clyde.

You better hurry up if you don’t wanna be alone

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

After scrolling through 110 Grammy categories, I’ve re-established one of the (many) reasons I don’t watch award shows. Of 110 winners, only two are in my CD collection. (My personal taste didn’t fare much better in nominations, either; I think I own maybe five of the albums that got nods. I will point out, though, that Patty Griffin’s Children Running Through obviously should have won for best contemporary folk album.)

I spent my Sunday night doing better things, anyway. Like cooking. And reading. And talking to my cat.

Best Pop Collaboration with Vocals
“Gone, Gone, Gone (Done Moved On)” – Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, Raising Sand (Rounder Records)

Best Recording Package
Zachary Nipper, art director – Bright Eyes, Cassadaga (Saddle Creek)

Lie to me. I promise, I’ll believe.

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

In the fall I began making a list of lies I believe—things that keep me from accepting grace, mercy, truth. It was really freeing, and probably something I should continue doing as I recognize these things. Somehow, acknowledging a false belief and calling myself out on it seems to be a significant step toward healing.

 

But today I’m voluntarily telling myself another lie, a white lie if you will. It’s gray outside and the temperature is supposed to drop as the day goes on. The calendar insists that we’re still in February (and the early part, at that). But in my mind? It’s spring, and nothing you can tell me is going to change that. I’m ready for blue skies, mild days, daffodils and tulips, renewal. And if wearing my summer perfume in February is a little weird, well, you’ll get over it. Today I choose to be fiercely optimistic.

All of our problems gonna disappear when we can whisper right in that president’s ear

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I voted! 

I never feel more patriotic than on election day. You’ve got till 7 p.m.! (Election night coverage is, by far, the main thing I miss about newspaper reporting.)

 

Also, just because you should know this: This weekend I drove out to Primavera to replenish my barren coffee bean container. (I usually buy their beans at V Richards, but the selection there is limited and I wanted to try something other than my standard Sumatra Mandheling.) I settled on the Rwanda Kinunu—but that’s not the point. The point is, the beans I bought were roasted less than two hours earlier. TWO HOURS.

 

Where else can you find that kind of freshness? One more reason to shop local.

Don’t hold your breath or your vote until
you think you’ve finally found a savior up on Capitol Hill

Derek Webb, “A Savior on Capitol Hill”

Politics or love can make you blind or make you see

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Things I learned on the campaign trail:

  • You know how a word starts to feel meaningless if you repeat it enough times? Waving is the same way.
  • A lot of people talk on their cell phones while driving. I mean, I do too. But wow.
  • 65 degrees really is cold to a lonesome waving hand. (It took mine at least half an hour to defrost. And yes, I’m a big baby.)
  • Making eye contact with people, smiling, waving and engaging them as they drive by feels strangely like flirting. Except I think I’m much better at engaging strangers in passing cars than men in real life.
  • Standing on a corner for three hours creates ample time for prayer.
  • Set your campaign to music and you’ll find yourself waving to the beat. (And, OK, occasionally thumping on your sign in time, and resisting the urge to dance.)

Politics or love can make you blind or make you see
make you a slave or make you free
but only one does it all

–Love is Not Against the Law, Derek Webb

I was born in a state of grace

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

One of the (many) ways I know Birmingham’s home:

It doesn’t matter where I’ve been or why. I’ve been to West Texas for a job interview and fought the urge to kiss the red clay dirt when I returned. I’ve spent a week vacationing in New York and longed for Southern accents. I’ve lounged around Florida with my parents and siblings and wondered if that’s really where I was raised.

Every time I return, I am so glad to see my sweet home, Alabama.

The names are changed but the constellations are still fallin’

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

More from September… or, a peek into my disjointed mind

Personality “muscles” I haven’t flexed in a while:

  • Latin dancing: Intimacy with strangers, risk, the ice queen at work
  • Dating: I want a boyfriend, but I don’t want an insta-boyfriend. Slow is the only speed I move at, at least right now.
  • Dancing: I forgot how shy I used to be. I’ve always said that cheerleading, and then dancing, drew me out. I guess it’s true.

… 

I’m sore today. My lower back is tense. I used both hands to grip the railing of the circular staircase at work, easing myself down into the lobby or up into the breakroom. I went to a dance class last night, and it feels like the first time I’ve used those particular muscles in years.

I feel like I’ve been learning a lot about myself lately. I’ve never been 26 before, but it seems like the way to spend this year. I’m always growing up, I know that, but 26 seems so adult. I’m on the brink of my late twenties,

… 

Two years ago I started “talking”* to Fly Boy just before his 29th birthday. Thirty still lurked a year away, but he was looking forward to it. Your twenties are a time for confusion, for struggling to figure out who you are and what you do in life. But your thirties are a time to embrace the resolution of those questions, he hypothesized. It’s a time to become established.

I was only 24 at the time, but suddenly 30 sounded pretty good. (A friend in his thirties later told me that Fly Boy was full of it.)

*Speaking of talking—isn’t it funny that everyone has different definitions of these terms? A friend and I were trying to pin a label on a relationship recently. I suggested dating, except this couple had actually only gone on one date. She proposed talking, but immediately tabled the idea. Talking, she said, involved making out at least once. Funny—I thought it simply meant talking, with a degree of interest implied.

 

…now, back to 2008…