"It is such a secret place, the land of tears." Antoine de Saint-Exupery

And so I must confess that my eyes have swollen up once again with the salty familiarity of displaced tears. I am unable to sleep or find rest in my present state of mind. There are so very many thoughts to sift through and so very many heartaches through which to persevere. It seems like a medical miracle that the human heart can break and then mend only to start the whole process over again. For me, there seems to be chunks of happiness missing in being so far from my family and feeling utterly helpless and without control. I bear the burden of a deep sorrow that weighs me down even as I crawl forward. The pain of love is in knowing I have no control over the outcome of events. That is in God's hands. I cannot do that which I long to, I cannot hold my sister's hand, I cannot take care of and be with the family I love and worry over and I cannot look to the arm of flesh for support for it is weak and undependable. I have been blessed and challenged by the friendships in my life and know that while some have caused me a great deal of sadness others have helped me to rekindle my joy and gratitude for God's blessings. And while I may weep in the night I know I am not alone. That there is One who will always hear my cries and soothe my weary soul. And so I sojourn in valley of sorrow but I never do so alone and joy always appears on the horizon, eventually.

Art is the imprint of soul on another soul...

I Like It, But Is It Art?

“The ultimate question in the philosophy of art is not only what art is but also what its purpose, function, and importance are in our lives” (Bowie, Michaels, Solomon 614). What deems a collection of words, a visual representation, or concert of sound a work of art? How does individual taste shape how we perceive and thus classify art from non-art? And what role does culture have in regards to artistic schematizing as well as development? In the essays collected by Bowie, Michaels and Solomon in the chapter titled I Like It, but Is It Art? each author or set of authors takes a strong stance on one of these points in an attempt to address the philosophical questions regarding art and its relationship to the human experience.

            In his foundational text What is Art? the famous Russian novelist and philosopher Leo Tolstoy addresses the most basic question that continues to be debated today: how do we know when an object is a work of art and not just another ordinary object of human invention? What sets some creations apart from others as uniquely belonging to the classification of “art”? Tolstoy believed that “art begins when one person, with the object of joining another or others to himself in one and the same feeling, expresses that feeling by certain external indications”( Bowie, Michaels, Solomon 617). Meaning, intention and skill of the creator to externalize a state of mind or feeling through their creation is integral to qualification as artwork. Furthermore, one can delineate “real art from its counterfeit” by the power of its “infectiousness”.  Tolstoy explains it thus, “…however poetic, realistic, effectual, or interesting a work may be, it is not a work of art if it does not evoke that feeling (quite distinct from all other feelings) of joy and of spiritual union with another (the author) and with others (those who are also infected by it)” (Bowie et all 618). This contagion of emotional expression and reception is heightened by three principles put forth by Tolstoy: the more personal the emotion being expressed the more personally it will be felt by those who benefit from the piece being shared; the sharper the clarity of the emotion being expressed the clearer the reception; “the artist should be impelled by an inner need to express his feeling”, meaning that without the authentic desire of the artist to project his internal nature  there is no art. Art must communicate the truth of the artist’s inner being (Bowie 619).  In Tolstoy’s words, “Art is a human activity consisting in this that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them…”(Bowie 618). Simply put, art is the capacity of the artist to pass on a genuine expression of emotion and experience to an audience who can emotionally connect to the artist as well as others through the power of the work.

            In The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception, philosophers Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer explain that culture and society with their great advancements in technology have so reshaped the world that the notion of mass media and mass production has created a type of conformity of watered down tools of a cultural conglomerate monopoly.  ”Under monopoly all mass culture is identical, and the lines of its artificial framework begin to bleed through…Movies and radio need no longer pretend to be art. The truth that they are just business is made into an ideology in order to justify the rubbish they deliberately produce” (Bowie et all 621). The machine of rapid fire information and entertainment has created a culture in which critical thinking and hence understanding and appreciation of art in all its forms is practically stifled into nonexistence. And not only does the media machine hurl content at the masses it also prioritizes and categorizes it all for them. As Adorno and Horkheimer explain it the individual “has to accept what the culture manufacturers offer him…industry robs the individual of his function. Its prime service to the customer is to do his schematizing for him” (Bowie 622). The pervasive group think spoon fed dynamic of mass media and the all flash no substance cultural production that results from it deceives its victims into believing what Tolstoy would say was the counterfeit of art; producing no sincere emotional connection between creator and recipients but in fact a large scale cultural disconnect.

            Roger Scruton’s essay “Art, Beauty, and Judgment” focuses on the pervasive “cultural relativism” which he argues is destroying the essence and function of art. Scruton decries:

If anything can count as art, then art ceases to be art. All that is left is the curious but unfounded fact that some people like looking at some things, others like looking at others. As for the suggestion that there is an enterprise of criticism which searches for objective values and lasting monuments to the human spirit, this is dismissed out of hand…. (Bowie 625-626)

He makes the argument that art cannot be defined by subjective experience and terms but by a return to aesthetic principles; that while it has become passé to accept it, taste, like humor, has certain boundaries that differentiate the good from the bad.  Art should be a means by which the best within humanity is explored and celebrated not a tool to mock and demean the human spirit in order to condone a cultural free-for-all. Like Adorno and Horkheimer, Scruton observes that society “has been taken over by a culture that wishes not to educate our perception but to capture it, not to ennoble human life but to trivialize it”(Bowie et all 627). How can there be any notion of what art actually is if there is no standard or even support in the public square for “aesthetic judgment”?

            C.J. Ducasse’s essay “What Has Beauty to Do with Art?” refutes Scruton’s notions of returning the concept of aesthetic beauty to the definition of art. According to Ducasse, while beauty may be “a condition of the social visibility of a work of art… it is not a condition of the existence of one. Ugly art, although easily overlooked or forgotten…exists in vast quantities” (Bowie 628). Ducasse refers to the work of two authors, one of whom is Leo Tolstoy, in establishing an understanding of what art is if beauty is not a requisite characteristic. Art “…is the critically-controlled attempt to give objective expression to, i.e., to embody a feeling. That it is objective expression that art directly aims at, means that in the light of which the artist exercises critical control of his own work is, not the beauty of what he creates, but the adequacy of it as embodiment of his feeling”(Bowie 629). Furthermore, in defining the term beauty in aesthetic terms, Ducasse points out what may be aesthetically pleasing or displeasing to the beholder will vary from individual to individual making a completely objective standard for such a requirement illogical.

            In “Art, Practice, and Narrative” professor Noel Carrol puts forth the theory that classifying something as artwork would be directly tied to its whether or not as well as how it fits in to “the evolving tradition of art…That is, whether an object (or performance) is identified as art is a question internal to the practice or practices of art” (Bowie 631). If something is to be categorized as a product of artistic creation its relationship to its predecessor’s characteristics plays a key role. In the definition of what may or may not be art art history and culture are integral.  As Carrol explains, “Art is a cultural practice. A cultural practice is an arena of activity that governs itself such that it reproduces itself over time…However this replication cannot be absolutely rote…the practice must readjust itself and evolve, in order to adapt to new circumstances” (Bowie 632). The output of the creative process is always viewed in reference to the history from which it evolves. Carrol would suggest we understand the relationship of this new object to be classified with the contemporary as well as historical art scene by looking for one of these three determining factors: repetition, amplification, and/or repudiation. The key to categorizing any work as art, according to Carrol, we must find its place in the evolutionary pattern either by its adoption, expansion, or rejection of artistic principles already universally understood.

            In the last two pieces, both authors use the discussion of art to engage in a study of either how art can enhance the human experience as in Kathleen M. Higgins’, “The Music of Our Lives” or how art reflects the perspective of the society from which it is born, as in Mary Devereaux’s, ”The Male Gaze”. Higgin’s begins her appeal for a more intensive study of music on the human experience by looking to Plato who taught that “musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul…making the soul of him who is rightly educated graceful, or of him who is ill- educated ungraceful” (Bowie et all 637).  For an element of our daily lives that seeps in by means of every possible outlet music has been vastly undervalued in its connection and power to shape our ethical values. What music we have exposure to, beyond that of the traditionally accepted purity of the classical genre can allow for a larger world view in that when we determine to diversify our listening choices we are shaping our minds to be more receptive and expansive in appreciating diversity; a philosophy that can easily diffuse from our musical interactions to our interactions with a variety of other people and cultures; and as Higgin’s points out, “By so developing our potential to understand others, music serves a role of decided ethical significance” (Bowie et all 639).

            Mary Devereaux, however, looks not at how the art we produce can change our cultural perspective but how our cultural perspective shapes what we produce. Starting with the premise that “Observation is always conditioned by perspective and expectation” and that art reflects some form of individual human observation ”...feminist claims that our representations inscribe a male gaze” because “Both men and women have learned to see the world through male eyes” (Bowie et all 640). Why do women spend years and thousands of dollars in the Quixote-like quest for beauty? Because culturally there is a perception of what “beauty” looks like and that is a product of the domination of the male perspective throughout society and the socialization of females to accept that standard. At the heart of this problem lays, what Devereaux calls “male institutional control” meaning while women participate in the creative process in many forms there are very few women who are involved at the level of authority and power brokering. The creative process is thus not only disproportionately managed by the male perspective but it becomes the acceptable and expected paradigm in the cultural practice we call art as a result.

            These pieces each offer a nuanced insight into the complexity of any conversation to be had about what art is and how it affects and is affected by the human experience. In reading Tolstoy’s description of how we can know what art is I reflected on the first time I saw Van Gogh’s Starry Night up close and in person. It was certainly a transporting experience for me. There was an instant recognition of this moment when Tolstoy wrote “the receiver of a true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he feels as if the work were his own and not someone else’s as if what it expresses were just what he had long been wishing to express” (Bowie et all 618). There does seem to be a unifying spirit between artist and receiver through the masterful works of art, however there is an element Tolstoy does not address in depth what role aesthetic beauty plays regarding how we are to qualify objects as “art”. It was Ducasse’s essay, written in the historical context of post WWI modernism, a world defined by chaos and uncertainty of the state of humanity, that struck me in its belief that art could not be simply relegated to the category of visually or aesthetically pleasing. For if  “…the work of art is essentially an attempt by the artist to express objectively what he feels” our concern in categorizing art should not primarily be the “beauty” of the creation but of its power to “transmit to [us] the feeling objectified in it” (Bowie et all 629).

I sat down and cried....

I will never forget where I was and what I saw on September 11, 2001 and the days following. These two songs wrench my heart to this day. All those who lost their lives that day and have given their lives for our freedom since are on my mind this weekend. And I pray with all my heart that I can be more mindful of all the blessings I have been given and take nothing for granted.

"..let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure." ~ Albus Dumbledoree

 In my tenure at Borders one of my favorite aspects of my job was being involved with the Harry Potter book releases. While often  characterized  by severe stomach pains and sleepless nights leading up to the release dates and even a few unpleasantly demanding customers on the day of release Harry Potter evenings at Borders were most often what made my job worth doing. All the schlepping of 30 to 50 pound boxes, the checklists, the wristbands, the entertainment planning faded into the distant memory as the young and young at heart filled our store to capacity with the energy and passion only book addicts can conjure up. One of my favorite memories was the year Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was released. It was a uniquely special year because my sister and her family were visiting and three of the kids (including this handsome one in the photo) got into the spirit of Harry Potter and pieced together last minute costumes. Calvin was Dudley Dursley, Lincoln was Scabbers, and Madison was Professor Trelawney. I was lucky enough to spend the night doing what I loved the most with the people I love nearby and part of the synergy. Madison made a new friend that night and I felt hyped up on book lover excitement, supercharged by the anticipation and joy of hundreds of eager readers. Games were played, costumes judged and awarded prizes, and at 12:01 am the first HP6 was sold at our registers. What an adventure my years at Borders Syosset were....thank you Borders.

"Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories." Walter Benjamin

When I first moved back to New York after a 2 year stint in Salt Lake City, Utah I was working for what was then Kinko's, before its massive union with FedEx was even a blip on the radar. But my job in NY was nothing compared to the lively energetic sometimes creeptastic environment I had worked in at the Downtown SLC Kinko's and the commute was a killer. During the two years I had been on sabbatical from the fast paced East Coast life a new chain bookstore had been built. Now I will admit that up until that point, and even a smidge to this day, I am an indie bookstore lover at heart. I grew up schlepping into Manhattan to lose myself in The Strand after a quick browse at Trash and Vaudeville's. The notion of big box mass produced book stores became even more distasteful when I lived in Salt Lake and spent many a lunch or dinner hour with my fellow Kinkoid and friend Chrissyfur perusing the shelves of Sam Weller's. Those were halcyon day !s. So it was most ironic that I walked through the doors of Borders Syosset (#270) to apply for a job in late November of 1999.

The scene that day as I walked through the doors of Borders Books and Music in Syosset was one that became a familiar one to me over my non-consecutive tenure at Borders. Employees gathered round the "Info" desk chatting and mocking the obtuse customers and general sorry state of humanity. While the faces may have changed through the years the internal magnetic draw to the Info desk never altered, though its position in the store was constantly in flux. I remember the employee I approached about a job application chuckling in that condescending bookseller way (that all booksellers learn to perfect) and telling me "Honey, you have to be at least 18 to work here." He had me at "you have to be at least 18." I was 23 at the time and desperate to find a job I could enjoy and a camaraderie like what I had been blessed with back in Salt Lake City. Looking back on those Borders days I can honestly say that until my last year there both of those elements were a thriving part of my life. And although I have been a former employee for 3 years this October I can't but help deeply grieve for the place that gave me so much to be thankful for.

Borders Syosset, You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go...

So this was my view on the subway coming home from Manhattan last Wednesday evening. With sweltering humidity above ground one of the few shelters from the oppressive heat for those without shelter is the subway. And this man was one of several reminders to me throughout that evening of how truly blessed I am and how easily I forget that. It also gave me pause for thought on how readily we judge others by superficial standards; really in how readily I assess people with meaningless parameters cultivated by living in a society where outward appearance drives our social interactions. Earlier in the day a man most would have turned quickly away from based on his physical appearance

and odd manner of speech actually made it possible for me to catch my train and make it into the city by giving me the change from his pocket to pay the parking meter. And he was happy for me to give him pennies in exchange. While I do believe as a woman I must be able to assess my surroundings and make good judgments about my security I also believe I can be a little more thoughtful about how I make those decisions. I can be a little more generous to those that may seem different than I am and a little more patient in my interactions with those who may appear to "have it all" but may be "living lives of quiet desperation". For what I have learned is that not only do we make assumptions about people who may look like this gentleman, but we also tend to do the same about those who look the part of perfection.

Why Van Gogh Matters...

"Painters — to take them only — being dead and buried, speak to the next generation or to several succeeding generations through their work.

Is that all, or is there more besides? In a painter's life death is not perhaps the hardest thing there is.

For my own part, I declare I know nothing whatever about it. But to look at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France? If we take the train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. One thing undoubtedly true in this reasoning is this: that while we are alive we cannot get to a star, any more than when we are dead we can take the train."

~ Vincent in a letter to his brother Theo , July 1888

I remember with great fondness the first time I approached the original Starry Night housed in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC. I had loved the whirly swirly landscape by Van Gogh from an early age. Something about the violent fluidity of the night sky and earth over which it reigned captured my youthful imagination. That was before I set eyes upon the masterpiece, when I finally saw it up close and in person I knew I was in love. Van Gogh's passionate expression of the beauty and glory of the countryside after evening has swept over it continues to thrill me to this day. I was and still am awe struck by the transfer of emotion by artist on to canvas and the manner in which it projected outward and then imprinted into my own spirit. Since that day, many years past, there has never been a doubt in my mind that viewing Van Gogh's work is a spiritual and sacred experience. That he never saw success during his life but continued to paint with prolific passion until his suicide in July of 1890 shows the depth of the artist's desire to create and contribute to his world. The significance of his contribution to not just the art world but the world in general can be seen in the way his life, not just his art, is the subject of novels, movies, and scholarly research. There is something magnetic about the tortured soul looking out at you from the myriad of Vincent's self-portraits. There is something moving in reading the insights and struggles of the deeply sensitive Dutch artist expressed in letters to his greatest supporter and brother, Theo. Even 120 years later the brilliance and tragedy of Vincent Van Gogh touches me deeply and teaches me about the fragility of human existence.

"How can I be useful, of what service can I be? There is something inside me, what can it be?"

"The happiest moments my heart knows are those in which it is pouring forth its affections to a few esteemed characters." - Thomas Jefferson

Recently I have been analyzing the various forms of friendship I have been fortunate enough to experience. Some relationships offer love and support, patience and frequent acts of generous giving of time and self. Others swoop in and out like hummingbirds to a honeysuckle and provide the opportunity to learn patience and understanding that no two people are alike, hence no two friendships are alike. There is a quiet beauty in both dynamics when the effort and sincerity are at the heart of the relationship. There are some who quietly spend there lives devoted to intimacy with like minded individuals, making themselves open to being truly seen as they are as well as truly seeing those they love for who they are. There are some who thrive on the exhilaration of pulling friends out of the muddiness of life but protect themselves from the threat of messiness bleeding into their own. There are some that offer the hand of friendship while secretly manipulating the friendship for their own purposes. While others have taken bricks and mortar and walled themselves in to prevent any harm from coming in, unknowingly blocking out the greatest nutrients for growth. I have been and had a friend that fell into one or all of these categories.

Tonight, I was reminded of the beauty and pleasure of being in the company of those I can be completely myself with, warts and all. There is a joy in having the pleasure of a great meal while conversing about the vicissitudes of life, philosophy, and the new Harry Potter movie. There is a heart warming significance to having people you love and respect and generally enjoy being around make it clear they feel the same way. There is a sweetness in the laughter of good friends as they reminisce over the ridiculousness of life, and a glow that illuminates the darkest corners of one's inner being when one feels the sincere bonds of unrestrained mutual affection. To have such friendships I am truly blessed indeed and I look forward with anticipation in being the kind of person who can develop and strengthen the types of friendships that will be for the benefit of all. What recent experience has taught me is that the best kind of friend is never stingy in their expressions of appreciation and love, never withholding of their friendship out of a sense of fear or self-preservation, but overflowing with good will and a spirit of approbation. This is my challenge to myself to be more aware and diligent in my efforts to be such a friend as I have been truly blessed with.

The Flawed Hero...

The Flawed Hero: Odysseus and His Long Journey Home

In creating the character of Odysseus and more particularly in telling the story of the hero’s traveling to and fro, buffeted from destination to destination, in an attempt to return home after 10 years at Troy, Homer as master storyteller understands an important aspect of spinning an enthralling tale: perfection equals monotony. The ability to win the hearts of the audience requires a sophisticated mixture of wisdom and weakness, curiosity and the most successful literary heroes being human enough for the audience to become invested in their triumphs and failures. Homer adeptly accomplishes this all with the heroic character of Odysseus.

When Odysseus commences the recounting of his tale to the Phaiakans at the beginning of Book IX we know something of his character from his solo adventures thus far, which he confirms when announcing his identity to his hosts for the first time, “I am Laertes’ son, Odysseus. Men hold me formidable for guile in peace and war” (9.19-22). Homer has given us a picture of the man Odysseus after the trials of making his way back home are close to an end, but what kind of leader was he? How did his peers see him? How did it come to pass that 20 years had passed since Odysseus had seen his home? Our insight to all of these issues is obtained from the hero himself as he chronicles the events of his life following the end of the Trojan War. Up until this point in the story we have seen the man Odysseus use his cautious intelligence to maneuver his solo journey, it is when Odysseus weaves his tale constituting the wild events immediately after the Trojan War and prior to his 9 year captivity on Calypso’s island that the complexity of his character is drawn out.

One of the first flaws we see in the hero’s sturdy character is exemplified in the first incident after their departure from Troy (9.43-73). Hearts overflowing with the thrill of victory in battle after the close of the 10 year Trojan War, when they land on the island of Ismaros the “great tactician” as Homer so frequently refers to him quite recklessly leads his men in a brutal attack of the native Kikonians. Still taking pride in his might after all these years Odysseus explains, “I stormed that place and killed the men who fought. Plunder we took, and we enslaved all the women, to make division, equal shares to all-“(9.47-49). But he had not sent any scouts out to survey the land and assess the situation they were about to enter into. Then, when Odysseus attempts to get his men in check they continue in their gluttonous behavior killing and feeding on vast amounts of sheep and cattle as they imbibed endless amounts of wine. Meanwhile, the remaining Kikonians escaped and fled for reinforcements. Odysseus, as the leader of this group of men and experienced warrior should have maintained firmer control over the situation on Ismaros and certainly should have secured an accurate understanding of the inhabitants of the island. This rush to glory in battle and the chaos that follows it left Odysseus and his men open to what happens next: a surprise attack by the well trained army and decimation of the Akhaians. Odysseus’s passion for the glory of battle in this instance led to devastating results. With a massive loss of life Odysseus and his remaining men spend 11 days grieving and being buffeted about by the weather and stormy seas, until they come to shore at the land of the Lotus Eaters.

After the disaster on Ismaros, Odysseus proceeds more cautiously and sends select men out to scout the island and its people. When he realizes the dangers of losing any desire to leave the island and even forgetting their love of their native country when partaking of the Lotos flower he drives “them, all three wailing, to the ships, tied them down under their rowing benches, and called the rest: ‘All hands aboard…clear the beach and no one taste the Lotos, or you lose your hope of home” (IX. lines 98-102). As a strong leader he wants to get his men safely home and seeing the imminent danger quickly leads a retreat.

The wisdom with which Odysseus acts becomes questionable when his natural curiosity and sense of adventure are challenged. When they make port on a deserted island across from the land of the Cyclops they sleep well and “feast on meat galore and wine” (Line 169-178) while they stare across the cove at the island of the Cyclops. But instead of recuperating and continuing the long journey home, Odysseus’s intellectual curiosity is peaked and he announces that he will take a crew and row to the land across the water to discover what kind of men inhabit it, “for they may be wild savages, and lawless,/ or hospitable and god fearing men.” (Lines 184-189) Despite having been gone from home for more than 10 years and the hardships they had already endured, Odysseus is driven by his sense of adventure to explore the island. This could have been a surprising yet harmless excursion if they had but returned once they had discovered the nature of the island’s inhabitants. Odysseus describes his first sight of the Cyclops, Polyphemos, as “A prodigious man…remote from all companions,/ knowing none but savage ways, a brute/so huge, he seemed no man at all…but he seemed rather a shaggy mountain reared in solitude.”(Lines 201-206) . Instead of turning back and continuing the voyage home, Odysseus leads his strongest warriors onward equipped with food and wine, “…for in my bones I knew some towering brute/ would be upon us soon…”(Lines 226-231). Despite the pleas of his men to take what they should from the Cyclops’ cave and flee Odysseus “…wished to see the caveman, what he had to offer-/ no pretty sight, it turned out for my friends.” (Lines 248-250) Odysseus thrives on the challenge and drives the action, even in retelling the story there is a sense of satisfaction, despite the loss of life and years added to Odysseus’s journey home. Then when Odysseus and the men who were not eaten by the Cyclops escape, having blinded their merciless captor the warrior cannot resist taunting Polyphemos as they flee. His “glorying spirit” causes him to brag and torment the Cyclops telling him even “the god of earthquake could not heal you” bringing down the wrath of Poseidon and then Zeus.(Lines 571-573). In retrospect Odysseus sees that his arrogance is what added another 9 years to his journey home.

His next adventure seems to confirm this fate. When Odysseus returns to Aeolus’s island because of the imprudent actions of his crew while he slept, Aeolus refuses his help a second time,”…no law, no wisdom, lays it on me now/ to help a man the blessed gods detest out! Your voyage here was cursed by heaven!”(Book X lines 83-85) Odysseus attempts to learn from these incidents and avoid his previous mistakes though loss of life and struggle seems inevitable. He is wise enough to quickly retreat when realizing the bloodthirsty Laestrygonians would devour them all if they didn’t retreat. Then they land on Circe’s island, Aiaia. Here Odysseus proves himself a leader headstrong and determined, desiring to charge to the rescue of his men that Circe had turned into pigs. But he has no plan and no real understanding of what he is up against until Hermes intervene warning him about rushing in by himself to battle a witch of Circe’s power and advises the warrior on how to get what he wants from her (Lines 309-340). Odysseus follows Hermes counsel and proves himself wise in doing so for in the end Circe though he wishes him to stay tells him what he must do to get home, travel to the Underworld and speak with the oracle of Thebes. When Odysseus seems overwhelmed by the prospect of this, Circe reminds him of his noble heritage and calls him the” master of land ways and sea ways…”(Lines 559-561).

It is in the Underworld that it becomes clear how others view him, though it is obvious some on his crew have tired of losing their shipmates due to his natural instinct to rush into danger, “they died for his foolishness!”( Book X Lines 478-484) In his interactions with those he comes across we see the manner of man Odysseus is despite his flaws. First, he comes across Elpenor, one of his men who recently lost his life on Aiais and Odysseus vows to give him a proper warrior’s burial before they sail for home. In meeting with the spirit of his mother, Antiklera, she tells Odysseus that it wasn’t any illness which killed her but, “only my loneliness for you…for your kind heart and counsel…” (Lines 220- 227). With all of his flaws, Odysseus is a man admired for his wise counsel. Moving is his reunion with Agamemnon who instinctually reaches out to embrace him but realizing he cannot begins to weep and while they talk he tells Odysseus affectionately that he will see his son eventually and when that happens,”…he’ll embrace his father/ with old fashioned respect, and rightly.”(Lines 525-527). Yet his interactions with the souls of Achilleus and Aias are a reminder that Odysseus had not been highly favored by of all of his comrades. Achilles’ opinion is quite clear when he says, ”Let me hear no smooth talk/ of death from you, Odysseus, light of councils./ Better…to break sod as a farm hand/ for some poor country man, on iron rations, than lord it over all the exhausted dead.”(Lines 577-581). Yet Odysseus offers Achilles a great gift when he gives the shade news of his valiant son and the tale of the Trojan Horse. When he calls to the shade of Aias with the same impassioned language, Aias simply walks away

Through this entire tale telling by Odysseus the Phaikians have become enraptured by his adventures. He is not a man who has led a life of quiet solitude, but has grabbed every adventure he could. Alkinoos himself admits, “You speak with art, but your intent is honest./ The Argive troubles, and your own troubles,/ you told as a poet would, a man who knows the world.”(Lines 426-428). This is clearly true of Odysseus. He is adventurous and rushes in to situations to the peril of those around him but as his tale continues one cannot help but being enraptured right along with the Phaiakiabs

“In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.” ~ Virginia Woolf

I am cleaning out my life. There are things and people that have seemed to clutter up my physical and mental space for more years than I care to admit. I am sorting through the half-forgotten times, places, and faces that have moment by moment shaped me into who I am today for the better and for the worse. A few months ago I decided this year would be a year of lasts for me and so I have taken the summer off of school to make sure I push forward with some of my other goals. I am not sure I am ready to explain what some of these goals might be in the specific, but suffice to say I have spent many years holding onto coping mechanisms and painful experiences that have thrown me off track from where I really want to be and who I really am.

This past week I spent hours looking through boxes of old photos and papers. I almost didn't recognize that platinum blonde 16 year old girl, or the 21 year old free spirit smiling in the sun. Looking through these captured memories brought me back to the times they represent and the friends who have filled my life with fun, joy, and occasionally heartache. These are moments I treasure however unpredictably they shaped my life. I will never forget the first guy I ever loved. Seeing those photos of us standing together celebrating my 16th birthday seems like a different lifetime, especially when I remember how painful the rest of that year turned out to be. But that night, that perfect moment caught on film, also reminds me that enjoying and living a full life by its very nature comes with a companion, sorrow. But I can see clearly how such an emotionally distressing experience at such a sweet and hopeful age can thoroughly reroute one's personal evolution. I am ready to reclaim the tiny chinks made in my belief in myself by being rejected for having standards that seemed antiquated and prudish. Though I hadn't thought about this experience for a few years, when I came across these photos from a time that seems as if from a distant dream of youth, I saw quite clearly how I had been slowly creeping off the central track of who I am by holding on to this hurt for far far far too long.

And there is more. So much more I have learned about myself now by looking back at who I have been. This is just the beginning....

Transformers...more than meets the eye candy

I have given up on the Transformers franchise. It is not without a sigh of nostalgic regret that I do so, but frankly, Michael Bay has forced my hand. As a child of the 80's I grew up on what is now called retro pop culture : Voltron, Jem, She-Ra and He-Man, Thundercats, Wonder Woman, the Bionic Woman, V, and yes, Transformers. These shows are like memory markers bringing me back to a time when I didn't have the pressing worries of school loans and car payments; a time when I would leave the house at 9am in the summer and come back at 5 for dinner while the meat of my days was filled with playing the various characters and stories with the kids from my neighborhood. To me, all of these now iconic programs are representative of a life of innocent adventure and imagination. It is a true shame that Michael Bay has taken a classic franchise and created an oversexed and over-hyped brand to appeal to the raging hormones of teenage boys. Shia Laboeuf recently commented on this in defense of his former co-star Megan Fox, revealing the former female lead of the action series frequently disagreed with the director Michael Bay, about his demands that she play the sex kitten and basically whore herself out to rake in the money of 16 year old boys. That is "just his style" and this former 16 year old girl is adamant that a man who caters to the basest instincts for money and entertainment purposes and ruins a brilliant genre by sexualizing it will not be getting her meager $11 for any movie he directs ever again. In fact, although I am embarrassed to admit I own it, I am contemplating demolishing my never viewed copy of Pearl Harbor.

Perhaps Mr. Bay could take a page out of Matthew Vaughn's book. The entire time I was enjoying the depth and excitement of X-Men: First Class I couldn't help but think to myself: you see, Michael Bay, a great action movie can be made that has a great story, a bit of romance, and beautiful people without objectifying its female characters and trashing the legacy of a magnificent series. So, not that anyone will really notice the lack of my contribution to what is sure to be a gagillion dollar blockbuster, for the record, I prefer to not flush my money down the moral stink hole.

http://www.oregonlive.com/celebrity-news/index.ssf/2011/06/favorite_people_why_megan_fox.html

In the palm of His hand...

This image has a powerful significance to me. It is beautiful in its simplicity and its meaning. And it represents a place I recently have felt intimately acquainted with. I have been so well cared for and supported by my thoughtful friends and loving family that I have no doubt I have been firmly in the hands of someone far wiser and more loving than anything I can fathom. I am learning to let go of what I have planned and allow for something bigger, richer, deeper as I watch it all unfold. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the problems that seem to fly in my direction full speed, yet when I place my trust in God and sit back and watch the events unfold I am frequently amazed at how peaceful I become and how extraordinary the outcome can be. Being able to feel completely secure in the knowledge that come what may life will be rich and wonderful and challenging and perhaps even harrowing on occasion I have no doubts that I never need make the journey on my own and that I am forever in the palm of God's hand.

I need a hero...

"The characteristic of genuine heroism is its persistency. All men have wandering impulses, fits and starts of generosity. But when you have resolved to be great, abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the heroic.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

The concept of the hero has been a theme in history and literature since both fields sprang forth from the birth of the written word, perhaps even before that if one were to consider the tales depicted in numerous caves throughout the world. We have David and Goliath, Achilles and Odysseus, William Tyndale, Joan of Arc, Florence Nightingale, Robin Hood, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, and Mother Theresa, just to name a few. The names of countless others of some acclaim could fill this blog posting infinitely, but for me this quote by Emerson has a personal significance. I have been blessed to know such people in my life. To have the ideal set before me to know that right is still right and their still exists the principle of moral courage and self-sacrifice beating in the hearts of so called "ordinary" men and women today.

In my case, I honor two men who have represented such quality of character for me. The first is my friend Frankie. While I take this Memorial Day weekend to outwardly honor and remember him Frankie is a man who as one half of a dynamic duo, with his wife Brooke, continues to teach me how to live bigger , better, and truer to what I believe. I have never known two more beautiful people inside and out than Brooke and Frankie Toner. Their devotion to each other, their faith, their love for life and the principles of liberty are an ever present reminder to me of who I want to be. Frankie was killed in action trying to take down a sniper targeting him and his friends. The thing about how Frankie died was that it was truly reflective of how he tried to live as a person. And Brooke is his equal in every way. It is the ways they have each sacrificed I honor and remember.

The other man my thoughts can't help but turn to is the man I have always known as my grandpa, Grant Gardner. Ever since my grandmother died, almost 7 years now, Granpda has been lost. He survived Pearl Harbor on his ship the USS Mugford, and survived the Korean War as well. But this morning, at the age of 93, my dear grandpa finally passed on. After years at war as a young strapping man in the Navy and the years at war with aging, dementia, severe pain, and loneliness I have to wonder which ones were harder for him to bear. I wish I could ask him now that he has laid his mortal coil aside and is unhindered by the frailties of old age. I can here his voice as clear as day saying, "come on, Jenny. Let's go get some ice cream." There are so many questions I would love to ask him...so many things that I never bothered with as a self absorbed child and young adult. But I know that he loved his country, he loved his family. He was good to my grandmother, and he loved me. As I do him.

When I take the time to remember and reflect this Memorial Day I am truly grateful for these most genuine examples of heroism in my life. Take that Homer....

A work in progress...

My heart is full of tender appreciation for the ways I have been "fed" in my life, particularly the past few weeks. Words seem inadequate to express the gratitude that burns within me for parents who love and support me and friends who have enthusiastically sacrificed precious time and resources to assist this friend in need. It is during this time of uncertainty and distress that I have truly seen the hand of God. I cannot doubt it, despite the difficulties and challenges I continue to face. My circumstances are nothing extravagant or disasterous, but are uniquely trying to my character. Or would be so if it weren't for the fact that I have been feasting at a banquet of love and friendship. This has been a time when I have witnessed the goodness and purity of the many friends God has given me. Day by day I have been nurtured and cared for by a thoughtful friend or family member.When I have needed a ride, it happened. When I needed prayers, I felt them. When I needed perspective, it arrived at just the perfect moment. These are tender mercies and blessings I would never have fully appreciated if I hadn't had a bad day 2 weeks ago.
This video is of an address by Elder Christofferson, an Apostle in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints,that has provided me with much comfort in challenging times and it has again reminded me of how well fed I have been.

If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment. -- Henry David Thoreau

I have been reflecting on the power of being still and being quiet. Not just physically and audibly, but on a deeper and more meaningful level. Horrible allergies, a mountain of homework, and loss of transportation have allowed me to be still and focus on sharpening my mind while soothing my spirit. I am a firm believer that out of bad things good things can come when we see the opportunity to learn and somehow manage to see the bigger picture. I am living on an island thousands of miles away from the people who love me most in this world. And life seems to find a way to occasionally overwhelm me with its obstacles and unexpected decisions to be made. In the dark of night it is quite easy to feel one's self utterly alone and drifting in a sea of indecision and sorrow. What has become powerfully evident to me is that in having those moments what will often follow the depths of loneliness becomes a sort of miracle. It is after the storm clouds of feeling alone disperse that the rainfall of love and friendship based on principles of charity and compassion can flood every empty corner of your heart. But if you are not quiet and still these magnificent blessings can easily pass you by unnoticed while you franticly attempt to fill that emptiness with busy nothings. This week I am so grateful for the opportunity to feel the love and support of family and friends who love and care for me and renew my hope. I am so grateful for a Divine Father who watches over and blesses me with His love.

"Know thyself" ~ Socrates

Another seemingly effortless study of the human condition, particular to knowing one's self and then letting one's true self being known by others. Matthew Arnold has the ability to portray the deepest human desire as well as our greatest fear to be truly known and exposed to those we love, friends and or family. This can be such an excruciating experiment as we learn who is worthy of that ultimate trust and faith, and often cast the pearl of who we are before the metaphorical swine. But what are our options really? To live a life at arms length from everyone benefits no one. Least of all ourselves. I wonder what kind of society we would have if we could all be seen as we really are and for who we are trying to be.

The Buried Life

MATTHEW ARNOLD

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,

We know, we know that we can smile!

But there's a something in this breast,

To which thy light words bring no rest,

And thy gay smiles no anodyne.

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,

And turn those limpid eyes on mine,

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

To unlock the heart, and let it speak?

Are even lovers powerless to reveal

To one another what indeed they feel?

I knew the mass of men conceal'd

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd

They would by other men be met

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

I knew they lived and moved

Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest

Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet

The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb

Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,

Even for a moment, can get free

Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;

For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw

How frivolous a baby man would be—

By what distractions he would be possess'd,

How he would pour himself in every strife,

And well-nigh change his own identity—

That it might keep from his capricious play

His genuine self, and force him to obey

Even in his own despite his being's law,

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast

The unregarded river of our life

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;

And that we should not see

The buried stream, and seem to be

Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,

Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,

But often, in the din of strife,

There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life;

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force

In tracking out our true, original course;

A longing to inquire

Into the mystery of this heart which beats

So wild, so deep in us—to know

Whence our lives come and where they go.

And many a man in his own breast then delves,

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.

And we have been on many thousand lines,

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;

But hardly have we, for one little hour,

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—

Hardly had skill to utter one of all

The nameless feelings that course through our breast,

But they course on for ever unexpress'd.

And long we try in vain to speak and act

Our hidden self, and what we say and do

Is eloquent, is well—but 't is not true!

And then we will no more be rack'd

With inward striving, and demand

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

Their stupefying power;

Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne

As from an infinitely distant land,

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

A melancholy into all our day.

Only—but this is rare—

When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,

When, jaded with the rush and glare

Of the interminable hours,

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,

When our world-deafen'd ear

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.

A man becomes aware of his life's flow,

And hears its winding murmur; and he sees

The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race

Wherein he doth for ever chase

That flying and elusive shadow, rest.

An air of coolness plays upon his face,

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.

And then he thinks he knows

The hills where his life rose,

And the sea where it goes.

“Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls.” ~ Voltaire

Sometimes the words artfully crafted by another feel as if they sprang from your own soul. For me, poetry has often been a means of experiencing this phenomena. Here is one poem I could read over and over again and feel its meaning anew.

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. -- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster .

Where can I turn for peace...where is my solace...when other sources cease to make me whole...

This past weekend was truly a gift for me. I have been longing for a deep connection and this weekend I had a powerful opportunity to experience that. As I have mentioned before I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS), what most people know as the Mormon church. Twice a year the LDS church has a worldwide conference consisting of five 2 hour sessions over the period of 2 days. During these sessions the leaders of the church, both men and women, speak on individually selected topics concerning the tenets of the faith. Held in Salt Lake City, UT, this conference, what we call General Conference, is broadcast to the world via internet, radio, and satellite. During this weekend of spiritual feasting we have an opportunity to hear from a living Prophet and many other special witnesses of Jesus Christ. I have viewed these conferences for most of my life and have found great comfort and enlightenment in them, particularly in how to feel closer to God and Jesus Christ. But this past weekend will be one which I shall never forget. Every speaker, both male and female, seemed to speak to my heart as well as my mind. A peace was granted to me unlike any I have ever felt before through the constant stream of reminders I received that God is aware of me, Jenielle Bailey, and that he loves and lifts me through my daily struggles. He is providing me with a variety of experiences both pleasant and challenging that are drawing me closer to Him as well as helping me to be more like Him in how I interact with others. To the world perhaps this may seem incredulous, perhaps even naive. But I know what I have seen and felt and no worldly snubbing can bring me to deny it nor be ashamed of it. I rejoice in the love I was able to feel so sincerely and continue to feel when I take the time to reflect on it. How grateful I am for the peace granted to me by a very flawed and imperfect faith in loving divine parents and a Savior who knows me better than anyone in this world. I hope to be a better person each day because of these tender mercies.

Through pride we are ever deceiving ourselves...

But deep down below the surface of the average conscience a still, small voice says to us, something is out of tune. ~ Carl Jung

These past few weeks I have been contemplating my own discontent. I previously posted about my own grumpiness and feeling out of sorts. I have been desperate to understand what has been churning in that mysterious corner of myself I so often try to cover up and insulate from the world. Yes, I have a few considerable challenges in my life but comparatively they seem manageable to me most of the time. I may occasionally cry in my car on the way home or during some ridiculously produced alien movie but on a day to day basis I know how lucky I am and how much I have in my life to be deeply grateful for. Then today I realized what that not so tiny granule of irritation has been these past few weeks: pride. Hence the picture of one of literature and film's greatest representatives of that trait: Fitzwilliam Darcy.

But in all reality I had a moment of inspiration in which I was allowed to see my nagging weakness recently and it became so obvious that pride was at the heart of it. I realized that at the foundation of my recent feelings of malaise was a subconscious understanding of two facts:

• my growing reliance on the care and concern of my friends, especially those here in NY

and even more embarrassing:

• my inherent need to feel needed

Clearly, neither of these ideas in theory are bad things. Relying on one's friends and family is a key ingredient in a fulfilling and happy life. As is the desire to contribute to the happiness and well being of others. BUT when they trigger long buried and well hidden defense mechanisms. a significant amount of mysterious emotional turbulence can certainly be expected. And that is my journey. To learn to be a little less independent and not see it as a weakness. To allow myself the joy of knowing a little old lady wants me to stay forever. To be open to the people around me and not think less of myself for needing those connections.

"I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet." ~Persian Proverb ***WARNING This post contains a graphic photo from Sudan

I honestly do not think these photos require much of my verbosity to convey my message. There

is the face of a young Libyan girl adorned by paint with a peace sign,

there

are these Sudanese children with their beautiful faces, distended bellies, and non-existent body

fat or muscle,

there

is the Japanese soldier carrying an old man out of the rubble left by an unprecedented

earthquake, and there

are the faces of young Congolese boys clinging to the rigid fencing of the

refugee camp where they live as a result of the ongoing violence in their country. In comparison,

not only do I have shoes but I am swimming in the land of Jimmy Choos.

"I'm just a little bit caught in the middle. Life is a maze and love is a riddle. I can't do it alone, I've tried. I don't know why..."

So I had an interesting weekend this past Saturday-Sunday combo. I woke up short tempered and grumpy. Out of sorts in an undefinable way. That feeling plagued me throughout Saturday and refused to leave completely until late Sunday night. I spent Saturday night trying to refocus on my relationship with the perfect Therapist and Sunday I spent the morning enjoying the sweltering heat of 500 people in a very well heated church building. I attended wonderful church services and then caught up with many of my friends old and new. Yet this pervasive sense of being a little off center internally and somewhat incomplete seemed to linger. Having kept busy socializing, this wibbly wobbly state of emotions didn't fully strike me until I was leaving my friend's house later that day. As I stood up to leave an odd impression struck me and I silently asked myself what I had spent the last few hours doing. In that moment there was no "one" thing I could honestly say was bothering me or even causing me to feel so unsettled. I commented on this to my friend and yet I could not for the life of me verbalize why I was experiencing such a malaise. It wasn't until much later that night the clarity came. I am at a point in my life where having a family is what I would most love to be working for. And yet my days seem to be filled with a whole lot of "busy nothings", in a way. I would never say that getting an education or spending quality time with friends or keeping someone company at the end of their life is truly a busy nothing. However, when these moments are strung together along with numberless evenings of hanging out, life sometimes has an disconcerting way of reminding me that there are deeper, more permanent connections. What made me so very unsettled this past weekend was that while I have many open and wonderful friends and family there is a part of me that will not be fulfilled until I have attained those things I most want.In understanding that, I am no longer off center but patient in waiting for the best things and valuing the many enriching relationships I have been blessed with.

I was born a Football Player's Daughter...

So I have been thinking a lot about my father recently. The great, the good, the bad, and the ugly. I have been thinking quite a bit about the sacrifices he has made in his life so that I could enjoy mine. Granted, when I was a bratty and insecure teenage girl with the emotional stability of a tsunami it seemed my dad could never make the sacrifices I felt I needed from him. But as I have evolved through the years so has my appreciation and understanding of everything my dad has done and continues to do for his family.

My father played professional football for the St. Louis Cardinals for just a few years in the early to mid 1960s. This was of course before I was a speck on the Bailey radar. This is a time in my parents life I continue to value, however, because it was a period that changed the direction of our family permanently. Thanks to good friends and neighbors my father decided for himself to lay aside the anti-Mormon feelings of my grandfather and become a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Through the years I know this took a heavy toll on his relationship with his own father who had high athletic aspirations for his eldest son and namesake. By the time I arrived on the scene and was cognizant of my environment my grandfather, Claron, seemed to have mellowed and loved me to pieces. But I can't imagine the emotional price my father paid over the years in making the choice he did. How I love and admire him for that! For the courage to make hard choices because he knows they are the right ones no matter what the consequences. A quality that has defined his adult life.

The following is a Sports Illustrated article about the team my dad played on and his name is actually mentioned. My dad, the football player.

September 13, 1965 St. Louis Cardinals Tex Maule , Morton H. Sharnik

TheSt. Louis Cardinalshave one of the most intelligent quarterbacks in pro football. They have an abundance of good running backs and an experienced offensive line almost as strong as theGreen Bay Packers'. They have a goodly number of fleet, sure-handed and brave pass catchers. The defensive line is young, large and hungry, and there are plenty of big, violent linebackers. Add to all this a secondary that must benefit from acquiring the quick, strongAbe Woodsonfrom theSan Francisco 49ers, and it would seem unwise to pick any other team to win the championship of the Eastern Division or of the world, for that matter.

But this young, lively and deep football team probably will finish second or third. The primary deficiency is at quarterback, whereCharley Johnsonis a step away from being a championship quarterback and his replacements are seasons away.Johnsonis a brilliant strategist and often a brilliant passer. But he also can be rattled fairly easily, and he has a deplorable tendency to force his passes. This means that he will, despite close coverage, try to throw to a primary receiver against the odds. When he learns to look for his first receiver, give up, look for his second, give up and then throw the ball over the sidelines or eat it, he will have realized the potential of his good arm and brain. But he has not learned this lesson yet; he has been a starter for only two and a half years. It tookCleveland'sFrank Ryan, for example, more than five years to learn the same lesson. BehindJohnsontheCardinalshave Buddy Humphrey, who has not been a starting quarterback in seven years, and Terry Nofsinger, who has been a bench jockey for five. It is possible that one or the other of them is ready for a leading role, but neither has shown signs of it.

If theCardinalswere going into this campaign with a Unitas or a Starr at quarterback, they would be odds-on for first place. With Joe Childress, Bill Triplett, Prentice Gautt, Willis Crenshaw and Thunder Thornton for backs, they have exceptional running strength.Sonny Randle, Billy Gambrell, Bobby Joe Conrad,Jack Smithand Taz Anderson are a fine group of receivers. The offensive line is deep and capable.

The defensive line is quick and tough, and Larry Stallings, All-Pro Dale Meinert and Bill Koman combine a total of 18 years' experience with size and youth at linebacker.Dave Meggyesyand Marion Rushing provide linebacking strength in depth.

With Pat Fischer, Jim Burson,Jerry Stovall,Larry Wilson,Abe Woodson, Monk Bailey and rookie Carl Silvestri, theCardinalsare well supplied with defensive backs, a pleasant situation enjoyed by few clubs in pro football.Woodsonadds something theCardinalslacked last season—a tremendous threat on punt and kickoff returns.

Jim Bakkenis one of the handsomest place kickers in football; more important, he is extremely accurate at short or long range. He did not miss an extra point all of last season, his first in the league.

Add it all up and it would spell championship ifCharley Johnsoncould take the final giant step to stardom—and if an adequate replacement could be developed for him.

Two ifs, both big.

Read more:http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1077666/index.htm#ixzz1FfhvI9Hk