Off the interstate Sam changed clothes: H-Town jersey on top of his suit.
With Lauren
Mother-daughter time: we walked Stanley Draper Lake, ten thousand steps—twice.
We spied a turtle, then an armadillo, and baby geese up close.
Next stop, the Plaza for pizza and thrifting and the latest murals.
And The OKC Festival of the Arts. Oh, yes, I left my heart.
Much more food and fun, but the best part, without doubt— mother-daughter time.
Heading Home
Sam and his jersey still on my mind. It is time— to stop. Photo opp.
“I would give no thought of what the world might say of me, if I could only transmit to posterity the reputation of an honest man.”
General Sam Houston
Texas History Lesson
Because of the H-Town jersey, I stopped at the Sam Houston Statue Visitor Center for the first time ever and learned a thing or two. 1) the statue is 67 feet tall, and 2) the man was 6’6”.
Sam Houston was born in Virginia in 1793. His family moved to Tennessee after his father’s death, and Sam lived with the Cherokee Indians for a time. He joined the army, later became a lawyer, then congressman, Governor of Tennessee, and Cherokee Ambassador. In 1832, President Jackson sent Sam to Texas to negotiate treaties with local Native Americans. Sam became General and Commander-in-Chief of the Texas Army. Shot in the leg during the Battle of San Jacinto, Sam led the Texas Army to victory in 18 minutes. He became the first President of the Republic of Texas in 1837. Texas became the 28th state in 1845. Sam was elected as a U.S. Senator in 1846 and governor of Texas in 1859. He stepped down in 1861 when Texas seceded from the U.S. Sam Houston died at age 70 in Huntsville, TX. His home is now the Sam Houston Memorial Museum.
Sam Houston led quite an accomplished life, one that makes me think. Life is what we make of it. I think mine is pretty cool, too.
It wasn’t a typical Sunday when I set out for a walk through the Houston Botanic Garden. For one thing, this was my first visit—that, and I planned on dancing here. My Nia class would be celebrating Earth Day with an immersive, mindful-movement event in a tent: Nia in the Garden.
The day was 60 something degrees and overcast. I arrived early to explore. Slowly, the sun peeked through the clouds. I thanked God for the Vitamin D and my mobility, our beautiful planet and the healing powers of the garden.
When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment.
Georgia O’Keeffe
Before heading into the Cactus Garden, I spoke to a sculptor named Percy from Zimbabwe. One of 300 artists represented by the ZimSculpt exhibition, he smoothed opal stone with a file and showed me a chunk of the raw serpentine stone, nothing like the opal gemstone. A couple returned to purchase one of Percy’s pieces, his face lit up, and he turned his attention to his customers. I continued my stroll.
“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”
Marcus Tullius Cicero
Dancing Steelroots by Steve Tobin, Philadelphia
The Tree of Life by Gerardo Rosales, Venezuela
Pondering by Walter Mariga, Zimbabwe
Lovebirds (in Opal Stone) by Lacknos Chingwaro, Zimbabwe
Seated Bather by Gregory Mutasa, Zimbabwe
I couldn’t imagine how it might feel to dance in a tent. This one was fancy with a wall of windows overlooking the garden. I checked my phone, 7600 steps, slipped it into a pocket inside my purse, and found a spot for my belongings. Now let the exercise begin. As the music started, all self-consciousness fell away, and we danced—a celebration of self, our connectivity, and our sacred earth.
It was June of last year when I resigned from my job without any sort of plan. People are curious how I spend my time, and it’s a great question. Somehow, I never have a great answer. I suppose I could say, “I’m a housewife.” That doesn’t seem to need much explanation. In truth, housewifing is not my strength. However, I’m good at enjoying my downtime. Travel opportunities have manifested. I don’t have to drop much to go. I read and write and exercise. I’m keeping my mind right, staying connected with friends and family, and of course, watching my share of TV.
Domino #2
I can’t remember exactly when I caught a series on Netflix called Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones. In four episodes, the documentary focuses on centenarians living and thriving in Okinawa, Japan and the mountain villages of Sardinia, people on the Greek island of Ikaria and Costa Rica’s Nicoya Peninsula, and a pocket of Seventh-Day Adventists in a Californian suburb. Common elements and healthy habits contribute to longevity, including plant-based diets, natural movement (like walking and gardening), serene lifestyles, faith and hope, strong family bonds, like-minded communities, and a sense of purpose.
The Loma Linda episode made me think, specifically about volunteering. The show’s host says,
“People who volunteer have better memories, better social connections. They even report higher levels of happiness. If you think, it always involves some physical activity, involves some sense of meaning because you’re focusing on someone else other than just yourself.”
Domino #3
On February 8, my friend Georgia posted a volunteer opportunity on Facebook:
I typed, “I’m looking into it!”
Georgia responded, “It’s so fun. I think you’ll love it. Sign up to be my assistant.”
And that’s how I became Assistant to the Volunteer Coordinator of the 37th Annual Houston Art Car Parade.
Domino #4
On the crisp April morning of the parade, I donned my bright orange volunteer t-shirt and drove nine miles from my house to a high school parking lot just west of downtown. I parked and then walked to the parade route on Allen Parkway in search of the volunteer tent and my friend Georgia.
The Katz Coffee van delivered coffee just after 8 AM, around the time I arrived along with another volunteer named Hal. Georgia gave us the breeziest jobs at the pre-parade. We would drive golf carts and shuttle other volunteers to their locations, so Hal and I hitched a ride with the coffee guy to City Hall, close to the golf cart pick up location. For all I know the coffee guy could’ve owned Katz Coffee. Everything happened so fast.
That’s how I came to drive a golf cart down Allen Parkway, wind in my face, as the sun rose over the skyscrapers at my back. The art cars were beginning to line up, and I snapped photo upon photo. Art was everywhere, alive and thriving. The energy was tangible.
By the time I returned to the volunteer tent, more volunteers were showing up, and my official job began. I shuttled the mother of a former student and caught up on his life. I shuttled my friend who substituted for me last year when I took some time off for my radiation treatments. I shuttled some high school kids who were volunteering because their moms said so. And then Georgia and Hal’s son showed up. He happens to be one of my favorite former students, and he said, “Good morning!” and gave me a big hug. The energy was heartfelt.
I can’t explain. Such is life.
We’re in Texas, ya’ll.
So here’s a rooster car.
Brock Wagner, Founder/Brewer of Saint Arnold’s Brewery and the 2024 Houston Art Car Parade Grand Marshal.
Artists gather in Houston from around the nation, no other explanation.
Local schools represent.
Snapped pre-parade, later the mayor’s ride.
Colon Cancer Awareness
A water buffalo and an abundance of bling.This one is called Pandamonium.
HEB grocery stores. A reason of its own to visit Texas.
One of my favorites.
Tap and zoom in for details.
A favorite from last year. Every first period he said, “Good Morning!” and asked, “How are you?” and told me, “Have a great day!”
Daily writing prompt
Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.
The city of Houston has provided me so many opportunities for adventure. The decisions have been up to me. It’s where I made the decision to blog and to pursue my MFA, where I decided to dance again and to take care of myself. You learn and grow either way, despite the outcomes, but you never know until that first domino falls.
I count on one hand my visits to Houston before making the move before my entire life changed.
On a Union Pacific bridge while driving south on 45, there’s a sign.
Some call it graffiti. I call it gritty.
Be Someone, it says.
It’s more than a sign, The skyline stands stong behind. A gateway for opportunity. A beacon for possibility. A call to action visible only on the way in, again and again like a mantra.
Last week at my routine dental cleaning, my wonderful hygienist Jessica told me about an upcoming goat yoga event in Galveston.
“That sounds so fun,” I said between x-rays. “I just might have to look into that.”
Crystal for the photo credit.
Speaking of x-rays, I have a condition called mandibular tori, a bony growth on the floor of my mouth under my tongue. Some people are born with this and others develop it later in life. It’s not harmful but somewhat uncommon, “affecting about 27 out of every 1000 adults in the United States.” Because of my tori (plural of torus), dental x-rays suck. I’ve had some super painful experiences. Reason #1 I love Jessica: she makes the process comfortable. Now that’s a skill.
Reason #2. At my last appointment, during that phase when I would cry almost every time someone asked how I was doing, I had a moment with Jessica. My tears unleashed. She wrote down her phone number. “Call me anytime,” she said as she handed me the slip of paper.
Last week, Jessica told me how great it was to see me smiling, and like that we became friends. Before leaving that day, I said, “Have fun at goat yoga! You just might see me there.”
The next morning my phone rang. It was Jessica. “I wanted to tell you, goat yoga isn’t in Galveston,” she said. “It’s at Galveston Bay Brewing in Kemah.” I wasn’t sure I would make it, but after hanging up, I knew I would regret not going. I appreciated the call, Googled for more info, and purchased my ticket.
Then, Sunday just before noon, I drove to Kemah. For goat yoga. At a bar. What the F was I thinking?
Zoom in for a second goat taking a flying leap onto my back.I read somewhere I should wear a t-shirt. Solid advice!
I would prefer not to tell you I took a head butt with a horn and bled on my towel. I suppose that’s why I signed a liability release. Goat yoga takes tough skin. Literally. Such is life. Still, as I look at my photos, I can’t help laughing, and a good LOL is always worth it 😂.
One of the bigger billies.
P.S. Jessica had an emergency and couldn’t make it. That’s okay. All is well.
Every night, my mother would tuck me into bed.
“Good night, Sugar Plum,” she said.
I miss my mother.
Especially here at the holidays, I wax nostalgic.
Many years ago, my mother would read me ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and she took me to see the Nutcracker and visions of sugar plum fairies danced in my head. The following story is only loosely connected.
I skimmed the review of a play about Lauren Anderson, the first Black principal ballerina of the Houston Ballet, written by the former Houston Poet Laureate, Deborah D.E.E.P Mouton. I knew of Mouton, but new-ish to Houston, I hadn’t heard of Anderson. In the back of my head, I felt this was a show to see. I didn’t rush to buy tickets.
On Tuesday, October 25, I grabbed a bite to eat down the street from my school. On my way back to my classroom, I took the stairs and strolled by the dance studios on the third floor. Lo and behold, Doni’s review was on the wall of the hallway bulletin board outside Studio A. I know the date because I snapped a photo and texted Doni. “Your name is on the wall at my school,” I said, feeling proud to know her.
On Thursday, November 3, who should come to my school for a lunchtime Q and A?
Lauren Anderson!
Come to find out, her father was the first assistant principal at my school beginning in 1972. And this lady mesmerized me in the woman power sort-of way. I wanted to know more of her story than the fifteen minutes or so that I heard that day, and I was especially interested in the connection between the Houston poet turned playwright and the Houston ballerina. How many signs does a person need that she must see a performance?
I found myself Googling Deborah D.E.E.P Mouton and stumbling upon “The Making of Plumshuga.” Mouton says, “I’m not originally from Houston, so coming into this city as a transplant…over a decade ago, I wanted to feel the pulse of this city. I didn’t want to live as someone who was just visiting, but I wanted to make a home here.” Her words resonated with me, a transplant, someone trying to make a home in Houston. I searched for tickets for the play that would close in a matter of days. Then I asked my husband on a date.
He said, “Yes.”
The play happened to coincide with our 11th anniversary of our 2nd marriage (11/11/11 to 11/11/22). There’s something about those ones and twos. I just happened to find two first-row tickets.
Doni said the story would stay with me “for its honesty and the original and superlative collaboration of words, music, and dance.”
At the end of the performance, Kody said, “That was the best show I’ve ever seen. I mean, much respect for those dancers.”
I agreed. The dancers. The writing. Lauren Anderson. Her story. The way she overcame racial barriers and bad relationships and addiction. I left the theatre inspired.
This play is an important reminder that if you are an excellent artist, even if you don’t feel like you belong, you do. And that psychological dimension of artistic insecurity, regardless of the source, is part of the difficulty of creativity.
In thirteen weeks, I climbed 8,125 stairs, from the underground parking to my classroom on floor four. Not that I’m counting.
Okay, I am.
125 per day. 6 flights. 5 mornings per week. 13 weeks. Somedays more.
My phone keeps track— 13 flights on Friday, 12 on Thursday, 10 on Wednesday, 11 on Tuesday, 7 on Monday.
Each time, my thighs burn, my heart pounds, I breathe hard— but easier through 13 weeks. I’ve lost a pound or 2— okay 8, depending on when I weigh. Not that I’m counting.
Okay, I am. Blessings have a way of hiding until you look.
I count more around the school Steps and blessings and such great kids.
I don’t know the girl in the t-shirt that says, “Nice is the new cool.” But I smile, as does she. Then my student greets me, “What up, Mrs. Byers?” Her good energy spreads like fire. I overhear another say, “Today— is gonna be amazing.” He catches my eye, and his flicker. I nod and hope mine spark, too, a torch to pass on.
There’s often time in my day for extra steps. Time— another blessing.
Music swells in the stairwells a flute trio, a vocal solo. My heart responds, drawn by the pulse of art and life.
One flight down, Dancers in leotards perfect techniques at the barre. And I— stroll a little straighter, arabesque if only in my head, held a little higher, past the studios, past the tune of piano, down another flight to the art gallery to contemplate lines and images, color and messages.
There are days I descend two extra flights exit the building, walk a few city blocks for lunch and fresh air before ascending the stairs
back to floor four, somedays to the fifth, where rehearsals ensue
and my heart beats to the Mariachi, vocal, and orchestral excerpts.
In a small practice room with an open door, my student sits before a harp. “I didn’t know you play harp,” I say.
“I don’t usually tell," says she, and I leave her to her secret and take the stairs back to my classroom and prepare for my last class of Week Thirteen, not to mention Thanksgiving.
Proud teacher moment. One of these kids slaying Pavane by Fauré is my student. Please click the link and enjoy! On my classroom desk, “One Minute with God.” Thank you, Becky! And Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!
Each weekday morning, I exit the freeway east of downtown and turn left just after the second light onto a one-way street. It’s 7:15. Under the overpass, a man to my right makes his bed, folding three or four blankets, stacking them neatly on the sidewalk. Sometimes I catch him urinating. I try not to notice. On the opposite side of the street, a person sleeps in a makeshift shelter made of an overturned shopping cart and cardboard boxes. Sunshine or rain. 73 degrees or 32.
The homeless weigh on my mind throughout the day. After work on my drive home, I meet others with cardboard signs. “Houston, help. I’m hungry.”
Sometimes I have a few dollars. Sometimes I mouth, “I’m sorry.” My “Sorry” is often met with a wave and a sad smile. People seem to appreciate being seen either way.
I don’t have the solution. I wish I could say I’m doing more. I know people scam, but I witness people who don’t. I’ve heard the advice: “Don’t give on the street. Give to the shelter.”
Four years ago, the rain fell by the gallon…I found my way to WordPress and tapped out my first post.
Thank you, dear reader, for inspiring me to keep laying down my words…to make sense out of chaos and something out of nothing. May you notice the good in the world today. 🤍
In a lovely little chapel on the campus of Houston Baptist, I received kind words, a pen, and a pin. This was the last Friday night in May. I had taken the classes, put in the work, and completed requirements for my MFA.
Now, I hear Frank McCourt in my head, and he says, “Stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it.” I notice his two polysyllabic words and the strength of his monosyllables. Now, I will work with my tools, read books, study language, and hone my craft. I will put my bloody manuscript in a drawer and let it rest. Same for me, sans drawer, just rest. I’ve learned that good art takes time.
Even though my angel mother grew up in the Baptist church, the “B” in HBU filled me with trepidation. I leaped with faith anyway. God played a role in my story, and I wanted to do Him justice. Still, I never imagined I would find my tribe of like minds at HBU. Now, I see God’s plan. I’ll be forever grateful for these people—my cohort and professors. They became my friends and family, encouraging and inspiring me with their ideas and insight, persistence and growth, love and prayers. All of this without judgement. Even their criticism was kind.
At HBU, I’ve learned to make time and space for my writing and for me. And I’ve realized we all feel like imposters sometimes. I’ve learned to be scared and do it anyway. And I’ve realized the power of continued progress. Anything is possible with belief and persistence. I’m still learning trust and patience in God. At the same time, I believe He is using my story in a way I never could’ve imagined.
Faith + Gratitude = Peace + Hope 
