The Talent Code by Daniel Coyle

I'm only going to say this once.

Buy this book and read it.  Most of you know that I am a voracious reader, so it presumably means a lot when I say, without hesitation, that this is one of the most fascinating, inspiring, and important books I've ever read.  You can link to Coyle's blog here (http://thetalentcode.com/blog/), in the bit called "Viva M B"  and find a delightful video illustrating one of the book's principles.  

Briefly, a description of its subject, which I quote from the back cover:

"Scientists have discovered that myelin might just be the holy grail:  the foundation of all forms of greatness, from Michelangelo's to Michael Jordan's.  The good news about myelin is that it isn't fixed at birth; to the contrary, it grows, and like anything that grows, it can be cultivated and nourished."

Waiting For The Sky

The other day, my son posted a new recording of his song, Waiting For The Sky on his Myspace page.  While I listened to it, I began to cry.  His music (and my daughter's poetry) often makes me cry, but it's never for the same reasons.  This song is partly about his sorrow at leaving Yale, after he graduated two years ago.   My son sang in the the group Tangled Up In Blue and my daughter sang, a capella, in the Yale Women's Slavic Chorus.  When their father and I visited on Parents' Weekend, we would have two concerts to attend, and it was always glorious.  Listening to Waiting For The Sky reminded me of how lucky I was.  They're good people, my kids, and their voices lifted in song is one of the many gifts I've received as a mother.  

Daniel has recorded two versions of the song at www.myspace.com/dsusmusic.  If you'd be interested in listening to both, and then letting him know what you think, I know he'd appreciate it.

Here are the lyrics:

I’m chewing the bark off the trees

I’m rubbing the dirt on my face

I’m burning the pavement into my skin

I don’t want to leave this place

No I don’t want to leave this place

Angels

Do not speak to me

No one tells me to fly

Cities of the Plain

Stretching to the sea

Waiting for the sky

Lot’s wife looked back

But God never noticed

She just cried and she cried ‘til her tears dried up

Staring at the city she’d miss

Staring at the city she’d miss

Angels

Do not speak to me

No one tells me to fly

Cities of the Plain

Stretching to the sea

Waiting for the sky

The redhead is my pillow

The bearded boy is my bed

The cowboy and the Indian are in my dreams

Their singing fills my head

Their singing fills my head

Fire and brimstone

Fiddle and guitar

Sodom and Gomorrah

Rudy’s corner bar

I’m scarred and I’m dirty

Walking backwards up the coast

But the one thing I get to take with me

Is the thing I love the most

The thing I love the most

Angels

Do not speak to me

No one tells me to fly

Cities of the Plain

Stretching to the sea

Waiting for the sky

Chapels in Unlikely Locations

It is 6:30 a.m., and I am tipped back in my chaise outside on my wee balcony.  Coffee at my elbow.  The trucks and worker bees are beginning to arrive next door, where a building is going up, though the actual drilling won't begin until 7:00, as the law dictates.

In my dream just before waking, I was a member of an archeological dig in a vast cathedral.  We discovered a nook in one area and saw that beneath the thin skein of plaster there lurked the ancient remains of a glorious chapel.

As we began the painstaking process of chipping away at the walls and ceiling, the place transposed and became my head.  The team lead me away, explaining that the vast pressure in my head was this chapel.  They would have to drill into my skull -- without anything to help with the pain -- to release the pressure and dig out the chapel.

A chapel in my head.  

Okay, so, yes, this doesn't come as a surprise.  

Does that surprise you?  In fact, do your own dreams surprise you or merely confirm what you already know or have suspected?

The Writer's Journey

I'm taking a break from my memoir because something mysterious in my life has become -- astonishingly -- less mysterious. I need to give it time to settle before I'll be able to understand and write about it. Or so I tell myself.

Meanwhile, I plan to continue writing my young adult novel, Shema. It's signed with a top-notch children's literary agency, which is a good feeling. This week, I've been rereading The Writer's Journey/Mythic Structure for Storytellers & Screenwriters by Christopher Vogler. This is the third time I've read it, and each time I'm struck by how extraordinarily helpful it is in planning a novel or film. I've been making notes concerning Shema, and I plan to develop an outline.

But, along the way, I've had the fun of recognizing my own journey in Vogler's descriptions, which are derived from Joseph Campbell's classic, The Hero With A Thousand Faces. When I turned 50 years old, I fell down a mountain and suffered a concussion, which led to a bunch of rather extraordinary feelings and events. Call it a mystical and spiritual awakening. I will be 57 years old this summer. Seven years have gone by, and as many of you probably know, seven is a significant number. It's uncanny how closely my "story" during these last seven years has followed the mythic structure of all stories.

I'm on the return journey, but I don't kid myself it will be easy. As Vogler quotes at the beginning of the chapter called The Road Back:

Easy is the descent to the Lower World; but, to retrace your steps and to escape to the upper air -- this is the task, this is the toil. (The Sibyl to Aeneas in The Aeneid)

Fridays@Jody's/5 June 2009

Introducing David Walsh! See www.fridaysatjodys.blogspot.com

Let Them Eat Cake

My former husband, Elliot, received an Honorary Doctorate from Lafayette College over the week-end. Our children, Rachel (married to Art), and Daniel, flew into Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to be there, but the fun part was the way Rachel and Art surprised Elliot. He had no idea they were coming until he turned around in his kitchen, where he was on the phone and talking to Rachel in Palo Alto, and found her standing right smack in front of him, grinning. From all the descriptions, it sounds like a wonderful event. I was incredibly proud of Elliot: his accomplishments, both internal and external, are evidence of a man who continues to grow, always working to be not merely successful, but good.

When Rachel and Art were on their way home, their flight into Dulles was delayed, so they unexpectedly landed here in D.C. for the night. Mark and I picked them up and brought them
back to Mark's house, where I had hurriedly put sheets on the guest bed and, generally, tidied up the one room in his new place that had yet to be arranged. I had the leftovers of a home-made birthday cake for them, which made me feel especially good since I have sort of a thing about cakes.

During Daniel's senior year of high school, when he was bogged down in the college application process, I got it into my head that I should make him a cake every Friday, to celebrate the end of the school week. I'm not much of a cake baker, but I certainly try. Then, when I moved to Washington, I decided I would have a cake welcome the kids every time they came to visit. Some cakes were okay, but I can't think of one that was really outstanding. Eventually, I gave up. As it happened, I'd made a cake for my friend, Ellen's, birthday, and there were two pieces remaining for Rachel and Art. And this cake was actually pretty damn good.

This morning, just before taking them back to Dulles, I brought them over to see my new condo. It was a great feeling to see their enthusiasm for the place, but even better to see them
in my place. One more kid -- Daniel -- will come for a visit this summer and then, truly, I'll have a home. I think I'll make Danny a cake when he arrives. Chocolate.

Rats, Part Two

I am feeling less sanguine about the rats. Exterminator arrives on Memorial Day. Sorry, rats.