Hello darkness my old friend.

 Hello there Blogworld.

Don't know if anyone even runs around here anymore, but it seems like a good place to return to.  Sorry it's been so long, I'm bad at turning inward and neglecting connecting because I'm too busy surviving my own storms.  

I live in the middle of this crazy place called the Palouse.  I'm super homesick.  I miss music shows, I miss friends, I miss being able to just roll up to my parent's house and say hello.  I miss my brother, I think he needs me right now... but I can't go home.

I got called for two crazy interviews, who knows what will happen.  It's all facts, numbers, and figures as an adult.  No time for the heart, no time for anything really.

I feel like I need years of staring out a train window or the farmhouse or a mountain or just breaking down at my best friend's house for DAYS.

Sometimes I don't even know where the songs come from anymore.  Like I have a clogged drain of ideas and emotions and they just take over.

Sometimes I don't realize what I can do on my own.

Often I don't believe in myself.

But as I slowly do... it makes all the small things disappear.  They don't matter.

And so I'm here again.

Hope to see you soon.

“And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone”

Hope wherever you are, you’re wrapping yourself in the arms of a song tonight.

I’m listening to Nina Simone sing Bob Dylan’s “These Times They Are A-Changing” (Changin’? My computer keeps correcting me which is a funny statement in and of itself) and sobbing my eyes out.

Nina’s is a strong, bold version.  A hymn of strength, light streaming through stained glass on Easter morning and your grandma has her eyes closed, singing softly, holding your little hand, and is crying happy tears.  I urge you to get in deep with her version.  Lights low and just let Nina take you on a journey.

Bob’s version seems almost tongue-in-cheek, as if telling everyone “look, you asked for this - you knew it was coming, you ignored it, and it’s finally here.”  Full of young fiery energy and angst.  I recall Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” - “sow around the grounds until you feel at home” - because the only thing that’s not changing is Mrs. Robinson’s stubborn booty.

Somehow, as I listen to the echo of police sirens here in Durham the two versions of this song are melding into one for me tonight.

I’m stuck at home.  My friends are out marching.  I can feel them.  I want to be there with them.

“Come gather ‘round people, wherever you roam...”

On Saturday I’m boarding a cross country train from Union Station in Washington, D.C. to King Street Station in Seattle, Washington.  Aaron’s dad is advancing in Alzheimer's and I’ve heard all through the pandemic the stories of his mother struggling.  After begging for him to wait since we couldn’t take the chance of getting her sick, I broke.  He’s crying on the couch.  He needs his family, and he’s millions of miles and a pandemic away.  Racking our brains, we ran numbers and tried to find the safest way across the miles of the grand American adventure - and the train finally won.  So, we’ll be in a bedroom having meals delivered as we watch the American theatre roll by the window listening to the hum of the rails.

So, I’m on house arrest of my own choosing so neither of us catch anything that could lead to her death.  And it’s destroying my heart.

I logged out of Facebook.  Hopefully for a long time.  I watched local jazz musicians tear apart their own.  One’s not saying the right thing, one’s not saying enough, somebody’s posting a MLK quote while someone calls them out for not understanding fully.  I saw a man write “...and a white women is not the answer.”  I wanted to scream, fight, call him a sexist pig with every ounce of punk rock energy in me.  I didn’t.  He’s hurting and all he has right now are his words on a social media page.  He’s been hurt badly enough to feel those things strongly enough to write them on a public forum.  I logged out I just started sobbing.  We are killing our own.  In words, in action, in deeds.  It is time for deep reflection, open listening, and acceptance.

“Don’t speak to soon, for the wheel’s still in spin...”

How can I as a white person understand?  My ancestors came over to mine coal in the depths of Pennsylvania.  They were looking for a better life.  They had the privilege to choose.  They had their names changed on Ellis Island and tried to not teach their ancestors their native tongue.  I can try to be compassionate and understand - but I know I am blind.  The ancestors of my friends didn’t get the chance to choose.  They were chained and forced across the sea against their will.

Here we are.  The year is 2020.  Racism is deep.  Sexism is deep.  It’s accidentally or purposely taught to us.  However the darn train got here, it’s in the station.  Where do we go from here?  How the hell do we start?

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call...”

Called my father tonight.  He’s the mayor of a small town in North Carolina.  I knew he had a board meeting tonight - and I wanted to make sure he knew what was happening in Raleigh and Durham.  He told me he was helping the former mayor (a strong, brilliant, and wonderful woman of color) with a tree that had fallen on her yard.  We discussed how we needed strong leadership and well chosen words from those who have the microphones of the world.  How does one find the right words right now?  How can anyone?  Dad has to - he has no choice.  He has people looking to him for answers, for guidance, as someone to express their anger to.  We reminded each other of how we’ll never understand, how we must open our eyes as much as we can, how we must be humbled before it all, how we must do everything in our power to help, how we need to call out those of our own and make them feel the weight of the responsibility.  Dad reminded me that he hated the word “protest” and instead said “this is a march.  Dr. King called it a march.”

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land, and don’t criticize what you can’t understand...”

I’m an alumni of an HBCU.  I remember being pulled over when my friends were driving and watching the police treating them differently.  I remember the cop seeing me and easing up on my friend.  I remember asking the cop if it was the color of my skin and him giving me a weird response.  I remember the doors locking on campus when we had active shooters - which was not uncommon.  No, you don’t hear about it on the news.  Apparently active shooters on HBCU’s is old news and not worth reporting for whatever reason.  How the hell is that okay?  Even “progressive” newspapers... nothing.  Silence.  SILENCE.

“The battle outside is raging, will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls...”

I remember my friend Bryn giving a speech at FemFest 2019, a music festival built around awareness of domestic violence against women in Winston-Salem.  She thanked all the male allies that had come out to support women... but she gave a grave suggestion.  Bryn said that men’s words have more weight in a group of their own and it was their duty as allies to speak up and hold their own up standards.  To accept nothing less.  I remember the room filling with cheers, our female fists in the air, tears and hugs all around.  As a domestic violence survivor, remember feeling as if a cool waterfall was cascading over my head and I felt free of the old hurtful memories burned in my brain - the ones I still struggle with.  I felt I was with my people.  I felt safe.  I felt good in my own skin.

“Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall, for he that gets hurt is he who has stalled...”

I don’t understand it all and I’m a fool to try and say my experiences could be anything equaling my black and brown family.  I remember that moment at FemFest though - that freedom.  The lightness, the feeling of safety.  Feeling victory.  Surrounded by understanding beings.

I wish this for my students, my friends, my family.

To the marchers:  I see you, I hear you, I’ll fight for you, I’ll be your ally, I’ll do all I can as much as I can.  Not just today, but for the rest of my life.  You are family.

“And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again...”

We all love what we love and we can’t help it.  I’ll do my duty as an artistic educator to uphold the rich history of musicians of color and be a louder voice for my friends.  We can always do more.

Be safe tonight, all.  As I pack my bags my heart hurts, I’m in tears, and feel physically ill.  I am with you and pray for everyone’s safety.

I feel Nina’s strong and bold words at the same time as Bob’s voice of helpful warning calls for us all to be ready and open to change.  Somewhere in all of it is some kind of answer for me tonight.  I am humbled at how much I still have to learn and understand - but I know my capacity for love is boundless and that’s all I can send out to the universe tonight.  I love you all.

No real blogs for this week...

I wrote a song instead!

YEEHAW!  HECK YEAH SONGWRITING!!!

So, get yourself a pen and paper y'all do the same.

~Billie.

PS- Apparently I have ads below my blog now?  Sorry in advance if you get something silly.

Goodbye, Winston-Salem.

Hey all,

Wow.

So much lately.

The holidays are finally finished and, as fun as they have been, I am finally ready to get back into the swing of things.

I just found out my school term ends May 6th, which is simply crazy.  I've never had school end so early!  Funny that.  In less than five months, I'll have my first year of grad school stuff in the bag.

That's so insane to think about.

What else is insane?

Leaving Winston-Salem.

12 years of good old 27101.

But, you know...?  It's time.

When I closed the door on my studio space for the last time, I was expecting tears maybe a hint of remorse.  But that didn't happen.

Instead?  I was excited.  Excited about the future and what it would hold.  I never thought this day would come, and it's finally here.

Story time!

My dearest of dear friends, Heather Watkins, stopped by her parents house in Rockwell, NC for Christmas/New Years.  The first night we were there I was feeling a little down, and Heather cheered me up by pulling out tons of old pictures from middle school and high school.  Smiling little teenagers, so excited about life.  Broadway shows, Drama Club productions, running around town, prom... all the essential teenager things.  Heather has a picture of me on her dresser at her parents' house.  It's me from a million years ago as we were getting ready for Broadway rehearsals.

"See that smile?  That's my favorite Billie smile."

I love this woman.  She always cheers me up.

The next day, after I clear out the studio with Dad, I send her a message.  It's 8 PM.  "You guys still up?"  "Yeah!  Get over here!"

Dad tells me to take his truck (since he's the Mayor of Granite Quarry and they tend to watch over such cars) and have a good time.

I open the door in standard high school Billie fashion, which involves opening the Watkins back door and saying "KNOCK!"  And I am greeted by Heather, Heather's husband Monte, Marie Donnalley and her beau, Josh, Brittany, their new little baby, and Mr. and Mrs. Watkins.  (I guess there are more than one pair of those now, which still boggles my mind.)

None of us drink anymore (or if we do, it's rare), so it's basically just us "old" folks sitting around the dining room table and talking about life.  It's funny... I remember Heather and I in the seventh grade lamenting the adults at the dining room table, dismissing them, and hiding in her room to paint our nails and talk about Star Wars.  Or KISS.  Or Aerosmith.  Or The Monkees.

Mrs. Watkins made a fantastic Italian Creme Cake (yuuuuummmm, Heather's mom is an amazing cook).  Yes, it was so good I have to mention it here.  True story.

"Billie!  Give me the hand you write with!" says Marie.

Marie is a palm reader (among many many many other fantastic things) and she proceeds to read my palm while giving me the most incredible facial gestures.  She nails a ton of things that happened in my life (with Heather interjecting now and then with comments about how right Marie is) and gives me some hope for the future.

At some point in the conversation, I comment to the table that I am no longer a Winston-ite.  I mention how I was more than a little surprised that I wasn't more upset about leaving.

Marie turns to me.

"Honey, that's how you know you did the right thing."

And there you have it.

I'm an odd bird (HA!  Get it?  Feather!), and more than a little indecisive and take a little extra time to make decisions (says my palm reading, thanks Marie!) but if there's one thing for certain...

When I FINALLY make up my mind?  I make up my mind.  Decision done.  Over with.  Put and stamp on it and put in the mail.  No regrets.

Winston, you've been beautiful and given me some of the greatest memories of my life.  But, you know what?  It's time.  Someone else can carry the torch, be the socialite, and make a holy mess of things downtown.  My good friends are still my good friends, and for that I am beyond thankful.

Onward to the next chapter.  :)

See you all around soon!

Take Care,

~Billie.

The P-90's and The Girlfriends at The Garage.

Photo by Jamie Kummerspeck Leigh

Hello all,

It's time for this Sunday's edition of my blog!

Whew!  

Guess what?

It's Sunday night!  The Christmas tree just got put up at the Feather household, and it's sparkly. (I'm tempted to repost my Wonderful Christmastime video from last year... but sadly I can't find it.  I know, I know... you're missing out.  Don't worry, I'll do another one.  Maybe.)

BUT TILL THEN!  You can enjoy Wings doing the real version!

This is crazy.  I have literally DAYS off.  Which is good, there's a decent amount of stuff to do... but all in all?  I HAVE DAYS OFF.  Billie Feather never has days off.  I HAVE DAYS OFF.  It's doing wonders for my psyche.  I can clean.  I can work on guitar.  I can sleep in.  I can work on stuff I've been meaning to work on for months!  I can write songs!  *insert happy dance*

But enough about me.

Let's talk music!

The P-90's played with The Girlfriends last night at The Garage in Winston-Salem, NC.  

Let's have a little flashback, shall we?

We had to find a fill-in drummer for the night, and after two other local drummers bailed (it happens)... we're not sure what to do.  It's two days till the gig.  After cussing, sitting, and thinking (think, think, think Pooh Bear style) almost all at once, we said... KARRIE SHEEHAN!!!  

We call Karrie, luckily and amazingly she's free.

Allow me to take a moment to give some mad props to the other drummers in my life too.  It seems I have the absolute privilege of currently playing with some of the most professional and easy to deal with drummers in the business.  Thank you - Dave Hartman, Brad Porter, and John Howie Jr.  I don't take any of the people I play with for granted.  I am a pretty lucky lady.

On Saturday Josh Caldwell (the P-90's bassist) and I roll up into Clemmons to find Karrie Sheehan and head off to the practice space.  Within an hour and a half (I'm pretty sure she can clarify this for me) she had our 10 song P-90's set ready to go.  Yup, she's amazing.  Add in a bit of girl talk (which is kind of fun, since we're both pride ourselves on being super professional and low drama in the music world) and we're all off on our separate ways to get ready for the show.

It's Dillon White's 21st birthday party show.  Which is kind of crazy since I remember him rolling up into my guitar studio at Separk Music on 4th Street with blue hair at the age of 14.

Now?  He's in my punk band!

As I roll up, Dale's outside and Josh is walking down the street.  Serendipity!

We all say our hellos, give hugs, and grab some gear out of good old Loretta.

It's a pretty cool thing to be the first people in the Garage on any given night.  The smell of years of Camel cigarette smoke, beer, and band sweat hits you like a brick wall.  Yup.  The smell of dreams and glory, eh?  The first time I played The Garage, I felt like I had arrived.  It still makes me giddy all these years later, no matter how I felt earlier in the day.  Ah!  A million memories.  All the posters from my favorite shows I've played there are still glued to the wall.

I snap out of it as the sound of Josh's bass cab's casters hit the concrete floor.  

"You ready, BeeBee?!" as he goes off to the bar in search of Guinness and a whiskey.  

I've known Josh since I was... 23?  I remember meeting up in his garage a million years ago for guitar lessons once a week and reminding him to loosen up.  All these years later?  He's a bassist in my punk band.  He's now beating the heck out of some bass strings.

I think Josh has seen me through some of the toughest times in my life.  

"BeeBee, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming through this, I will... damn it!"

Somehow, we've all crossed a threshold.  I now drink Cokes and Dr. Pepper at the bar, Josh is chatting it up with a nice lady, and Dillon is laughing and having a beer with his girlfriend.  It's a good moment.  

Sound check gets rolling, and everything comes together.  

We might just pull this off.  

"Check, check, checkin' the microphone..."

It's still crazy to hear my voice fill up a room.  Always like a dream.

Dillon flashes a smile, and gives me a fist pound to the arm.  I head butt him back.  I check back at Karrie and she gives me a head nod.  I look over at Josh, and I raise an eyebrow in worry.  I'm not used to fill-in's in the P-90's.  Normally?  It's the whole band or it's nothing.  But, it's Dillon's 21st birthday, and I'll be darned if he doesn't deserve a show for a far as he's come from that electric blue haired 14 year old.  And Karrie is as pro as they come.  Have I said she's amazing?

I zone out.  Josh catches me.  

"Bee?" Josh says.

I give him a look.

"Bee!  Think of all the other women out there who need to see this.  You're leading a punk band.  These are your songs.  We've got your back, we know you've got ours.  All that matters is right here, right now.  And guess where you are?  You're.  Right.  Here.  With people that love you.  Let's do this!"

I nod.  He's right.  There's a job to do.  And no one else is going to do it.

I look down at my boots for a second.  You know the old saying?  Put on your big cowgirl boots and deal with it.  (Or something like that... ;) )

I remind myself silently, "I'm surrounded by people I love."  One big breath, and I step up to the microphone. 

-----------

The P-90's have some amazing fans.  

Let me say that again.

The P-90's have some amazing fans.

Rick Johnson, who has some massive Ramones street cred I won't even get into on here, turned up last night and it's always a joy to see him.  Magically, he was there at the P-90's first renegade photo shoot at Wake Forest University by total accident.  I can remember the moment... "John Howie Jr?"  "Rick, you'd like this band."  :)  He's always got an amazing rock and roll story.  But last night?  He gave me the best life advice I could ever dream of.  It's as if the universe spoke through him.  I'm not sure he knows this, but it's the second time it's happened.  :)  And, for that I am beyond thankful.

Charlotte Stewart, who is our Triangle torch bearer, came out as well, and it always makes me so thrilled to see her.  She's in her last term of Law School (Rock and Roll lawyer!!!) and she said the sweetest thing to me.  "When I get really angry about exams or school, I put on a P-90's record and let you do all the screaming for me!"  Her unabashed honesty and clever wit are second to none.

Thanks to Charlotte, Karrie, and Rick for sitting with me in the corner of the bar and having great conversation the whole night.

Mad props to Mr. White, who is always so supportive of his son, and who I've known as long as I've known Dillon.  He's always a smiling supportive face, and things just feel safe when he's around.

The Garage crew (Karen Shew, you are included!)... I love you guys.  All these years later, all the times you've seen me act like a complete fool, you guys are still super nice to me.  Thank you.

To Alex and The Girlfriends, what a fun night!  Thanks for sharing it with us!

And MASSIVE THANKS to Karrie Sheenan for stepping up to the plate and knocking it out of the park.  Girl, you rock!

Whew!

When I walked into the Garage last night, I felt like the old me was retiring and giving the new me the keys.  I like the new version of me.  30 is really starting to feel like the best part of my life.  I'm thankful for my 20's, but THANK GOD IT'S OVER.

Here's to all of you for listening and being so supportive of me, my music, and my writing.  I cannot thank you enough for taking this journey with me.

Get ready, because the best is yet to come.

It's always the darkest right before the dawn.  And it's going to be one hell of a dawn, I promise.

Until next time!

Hugs,

~Billie.

PS- http://www.cinemaretro.com/index.php?/archives/5255-MERRY-CHRISTMAS-FROM-THE-BEATLES,-CIRCA-1964.html

Home meditation.

Hello all,

I am wrapped up in a quilt with a cup of coffee my Mother made for me while I write this.

The house still smells like mashed potatoes and corn (I'm trying to win them over to the vegetarian side of things, but it's a slow battle... at least now they've let me have part of the fridge for my veggie burgers).  There are candles in the window, fake evergreen on the table (Dad's got allergies), and mom's trying to get me to eat a fruit salad with Cool Whip.  I just finished watching a double episode of Dr. Who.

Today I did something I didn't think I could do.

I finished my first term of grad school.

I'm not going to go into details as to how much of a personal battle that was for me, but the important thing is not what's in the past.  The important thing is that it's done.

I cried on the way home from school.

I've been spending a good amount of time at my parents house this holiday season, and that's a funny thing to think about.

I was kicked out of the house when I was 18, right around Christmas time.

I can remember the fight.

Mom and I were putting up the tree, and I snapped at her about something.  She snapped back.  I didn't want to back down, so I said something I shouldn't of.

Next thing I know I'm in my bedroom, both of my parents screaming at me.  Me being bullheaded and definant.

Next thing I know, I'm out the door.  *boom!*  With my Dad throwing out my guitar right behind me.

I remember that lonely car ride.

I didn't have anywhere to go.  But I was determined to not go back home.  Thinking I was doing the right thing.

Well, I made it work.  Kind of.  I struggled, lived in really bad places...

What does all that have to do with anything?

My goal for this week is to discover detrimental patterns in my life.

One of them?  My bullheadedness.  Next one?  My inability to listen.

My bullheadedness got me kicked out of the house at 18.  Luckily, my family is amazing and they have forgiven me all my misgivings.

I can be rash.  And then I stand by my stupid rash decision because I am bullheaded.

What I should have done was drive around to calm down, go home, apologize, and have Christmas with my parents.

Here I am at 30, helping my mom put up Christmas decorations for the first time in... yup.  11 years.  Making up for lost time.

I remember when my Grandfather Feather died, I thought to myself... this is the first time I've had a week off in seven years.  SEVEN YEARS.

If that's not a detrimental pattern, I don't know what is.

But here I am.  Now taking things slow.  Practicing not being so rash.  Practicing not being so obsessive about things.  Practicing the art of listening and hearing.  Giving myself time to just be.  Letting anger go.

I've made a lot of lists lately.

Daily lists of "what I will do today?" which include things such as:  eat breakfast, take a shower, take a nap, go visit Dad at town hall, call K. C.

A list of things I want in my life.

A list of things I want to accomplish.

And the hardest to face... THE list of horrific patterns I have with thoughts on how to break them.

That's my favorite list.  I get to use my scientific skills to get in deep and figure out how my patterns occur, what brings them on, and in what situations they are most likely to resurface.

It's kind of shocking how simple breaking the pattern in.  A matter of, don't go here.  Don't put yourself in this situation.  Walk away.  Go home at this time.

It's also a matter of deciding what is really important to you.

I made a list of those too.

Then I made a list of things that I do that are detrimental to what is really important to me.

It made me feel like a drug addict in a way.  It's a simple thing, right?  Just don't do that thing.  Don't take "that drug".

Right.

It's about atmosphere.

Here in Salisbury, there are no bars I would dream of going to.  I barely know anyone that lives around here, and I don't go "hang out".  It feels like rehab.  Lots of quiet.  Lots of time alone.  Lots of time doing chores.  If I don't get home in time, I miss dinner.  I miss seeing people I love.  I'm permanently cutting off bad friendships and strengthening the good ones.

BREAKING THE CYCLE.  BREAKING THE PATTERN.  Restructure.

I often think to myself, what a waste of time my 20's were.  Then, I beat myself up a lot of a lot of reasons.

But lately, I've stopped.  Why waste time and energy beating myself up or reflecting on how bad certain times were?  It's a better use of time to just think on what I didn't like about A, B, or C, write it down, and write how I will change it.  I'm putting my energy into changing habits.

I'm in the middle of a break from music.  There's a P-90's show coming up this weekend for Dillon's 21st birthday (no way I could say no to that) but beyond that Billie Feather has nothing in the books.

Can you believe that?  Billie Feather has NOTHING in the books.  No every weekend gigs, no running around everywhere.

It's kind of shocking.

But you know what?  It's really good.  I'm taking time to remind myself of why I enjoy music.  Funny that.  The same room I learned my first song in a long time ago is the same room I'm meditating on things.  Tomorrow, for the first day in weeks, I'm going to pick up my guitar and work on some school things.  It's on the "to-do" list.  I'm rediscovering who I am without a stringed instrument in my hands.

It's funny how that has been my identity for so very long.

What the hell am I doing with my time?

Walking.  Riding my bike.  Reading, a lot.  Watching some Dr. Who.  Writing, a lot.  Taking baths.  Doing household chores.  Spending time with my family.  Finally getting the sleep I needed.  Not worrying so much.  Trying to let things be organic.  Do their own thing.  Not being rash.  Cutting out recipes from Southern Living Magazine and putting them into little baggies.

I'm resetting.  Giving myself all the things I haven't had since I was kicked out of the house at 18.

All in all, I'm doing much better.  I feel better.

I felt like for years I had a massive cloud over my mind.

And, I did.  It had nothing to do with anyone else but me.  I finally have time to sit back and reflect on what is really important.

So... what is really important to Billie Feather?

Quality of life.  My family.  My good friends.  Helping others reach their goals.  Teaching.  Music.  Love.

Living the best life I can.

I've cried a lot lately.  I'm finally letting myself feel things.  Not judging the feelings, just using it as information and letting it pass through.  Learning what makes me cry.  Learning why I am crying.  Learning what is important enough for me to cry about.

Anyways.

Actions speak louder than words.

I hope you all take the time to find what makes you really happy.  I mean, really really happy.  What, in Buck Owen's own words, makes your heart skip a beat.

Another list I am making is of things that make me happy.  For a while, I thought nothing would.  But, slowly... the list began.  I forced myself to write down anything that cause even a small glimmer inside of me.

It started like this:

Warm baths.
The Monkees.
The color of the sky.
A hug.
Bava, the dog.
Glitter.
Nail polish.
Dinner.
Smiles.
Dr. Who.
Christmas lights.

Insanely, coffee is still not on the list.  But, warm mugs are.  It's funny when you take time to realize EXACTLY what makes you happy.  You start to value things a lot more.

Yes, Elvis Christmas records made it on there too.

Suddenly, I started to wake up.  There is a lot of good in the world.  Things aren't so bad.

I'm also learning how to ask for help.

I'm queen of DIY, thinking that all you need are a couple of tools... and bing bang boom!  You have a solution.  (Bullheadedness)

Well, not quite.  I'm learning that I can't do everything on my own.  I have to allow room for someone else, and for me to not always be right.  Too see that my solution is not the only solution.  Trust me, I'm spending a lot of time not getting my way lately.  And, you know what?  That's really okay.

My parents are awesome.  I noticed something my Dad keeps saying, "I know you're not going to listen to me, but..."

And I thought, oh my God.  That's my MO.  Not listening.  Reactionary.

Hmmm.

Here's to the first month of the rest of my life.  I am thankful for this time.

I hope you all have a lovely evening.

Take Care,

~Billie.

Mandela and South Africa

Good morning all.

I am sitting in songwriting class listening to my South African classmates talk about Nelson Mandela, and I am moved to tears.  It's one thing to be a white person in a white world talking about Mandela...

It's another thing entirely to be in a predominantly African-American college listening to my South African classmate reflect on such a great man.

His will is astounding, and he accomplished some of his greatest feats after the age of 70.

Proof standing that it is never too late to make an amazing impact.  We are never too old.  Never to give up to what you believe in and love.

What a beautiful class.  Here's the poem we read:

By MAYA ANGELOU:

His day is done.
Is done.
The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden.
Nelson Mandela’s day is done.
The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber.
Our skies were leadened.

His day is done.
We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveler returns.
Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer.
We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world.

We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath.

Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant.

Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons.

Would the man survive? Could the man survive?

His answer strengthened men and women around the world.

In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors.

His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty.

He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment.

Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom.

When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration.

We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools.

No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn.

Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet.

He has offered us understanding.
We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask.
Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you.

Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man.

We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.