WHERE THE WATER RUNS: Nancy's Green Book
March in Minneapolis with Jonatha Brooke
March 19, 2018
I have followed Jonatha Brooke's musical career for the better part of 20 years. She is a highly acclaimed singer-songwriter with four major label releases, and nine CDs on her own label, Bad Dog Records. She has also written for film and for other artists (Katy Perry, Madeleine Peyroux, Lizz Wright, Joe Sample).
I have followed Jonatha Brooke's musical career for the better part of 20 years. She is a highly acclaimed singer-songwriter with four major label releases, and nine CDs on her own label, Bad Dog Records. She has also written for film and for other artists (Katy Perry, Madeleine Peyroux, Lizz Wright, Joe Sample).
Nancy (left) with Jonatha
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From the moment I first heard her, I was rapt by her songwriting (the melodies, poetic lyrics, themes), her rich, silky voice, and her effortless and skilled guitar playing. I aspired to embody that creative freedom of expression, her songs quickly becoming a soundtrack for my thirties - years steeped in the joys and stresses of raising children. In my forties, when I turned to my own musical passions to find balance and fulfilment, Jonatha's influence loomed large, inspiring me to create, play and sing. Her songs provided both an escape and a beacon, helping me forge connection with my own passion and a need to express through music.
When I heard that her one-woman play, My Mother Has 4 Noses (a phenomenal play that I'd seen two times before) would run for several weeks at The Jungle Theater in Minneapolis, I took the opportunity to attend and to ask Jonatha for an interview for Sanctuary. She not only graciously accepted my invitation, but also invited me to her charming, newly-renovated Minneapolis home to conduct the interview. We spent several hours talking about her work, life, and what she'll be delving into next. |
It was an exciting and provocative visit, punctuated by a private performance of her song, Put the Gun Down from her 2016 CD Midnight. Hallelujah.
Goosebump-worthy.
By staying true to her passion and artistic vision while adapting to life's meanderings and challenges, Jonatha reflects the spirit of Sanctuary in a big way. Stay tuned for her feature in our November issue!
Goosebump-worthy.
By staying true to her passion and artistic vision while adapting to life's meanderings and challenges, Jonatha reflects the spirit of Sanctuary in a big way. Stay tuned for her feature in our November issue!
Music as Sanctuary
February 11, 2018
We've been asking our readers to share with us using #WheresYourSanctuary. Readers may post inspiration on social media using this hashtag if they'd like to address our community. We are also asking readers to let us know: What does the word Sanctuary mean to you? Where do you find your joy, peace, strength and fulfillment? In a place? In another person? Maybe in a hobby or a passion? In a quiet moment alone? We would love to know what feeds your soul and fuels your fire. Tell us on social media using #WheresYourSanctuary or send a note or short video to: seniorstaff@sanctuary-magazine.com
Myrna and I have asked ourselves the same question - Nancy's Green Book and Myrna's Musings are spaces where those in our community can learn something about us as well.
We've been asking our readers to share with us using #WheresYourSanctuary. Readers may post inspiration on social media using this hashtag if they'd like to address our community. We are also asking readers to let us know: What does the word Sanctuary mean to you? Where do you find your joy, peace, strength and fulfillment? In a place? In another person? Maybe in a hobby or a passion? In a quiet moment alone? We would love to know what feeds your soul and fuels your fire. Tell us on social media using #WheresYourSanctuary or send a note or short video to: seniorstaff@sanctuary-magazine.com
Myrna and I have asked ourselves the same question - Nancy's Green Book and Myrna's Musings are spaces where those in our community can learn something about us as well.
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#WheresYourSanctuary
Music Music is my Sanctuary because it gives me the freedom to express whatever emotions I’m sitting with at the moment and color them in a way that best serves me. I can speak truth while feeding my soul and celebrating my passion. Music fills in my blanks.
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Boomerang
©2016 Nancy R. Burger There's time to stay but you better go Your beauty flame is getting low A souvenir at the show Old in a day (You wanna) be like them but you know it's hard A hand-me-down with a tattered heart Piece by piece you fall apart Then they give you away (Chorus) Flying around like a boomerang Hoping to land on your feet Hard to come down after all this time Like a boomerang...on the street After all is said and done The battle bruises that you won Let you walk away but never run Too gone to stay (Chorus) Flying around like a boomerang Hoping to land on your feet Hard to come down after all this time Like a boomerang...on the street… Let me be your boomerang….4X |
My Dad: Sweet and Salty, and Really Cool
June 2017
I find holidays like Father’s Day, Mother’s Day and National Wear-Your-Pants-Inside-Out Day (okay, that’s not really a thing) to be contrived and overdone. But the hype around dads during the month of June makes me think of mine even more than I usually do.
Which is a lot.
My dad had a brilliant mind and a heroic heart. He was stern, funny, loyal and loving. As a young girl, I followed him around on Saturdays, helping him with chores and running errands to the hardware store (I still love the smell of wood shavings), the liquor store (I always got a lollipop from the cashier) and the fish store (to replenish his aquarium). I watched him repair our stone wall, work on his grey Corvair, fix just about anything that broke, cut the grass. He converted half of our basement to a dark room and installed a red light outside the door so we knew not to barge in while he was developing. I learned how to create ‘negatives’ with a machine called an enlarger, dip prints into a series of chemical baths and hang them with clothespins from a string above his workspace. He loved the sea and spent hours upon days building elaborate ship models, attending to every small detail with what seemed like tireless focus and fervor. A strict disciplinarian, he had no tolerance for rudeness or disrespect. Equal parts kind and salty, his moodiness only made him more fascinating to me.
Back when such a thing was still possible, my father was a career IBM guy. We attended grandiose company Christmas parties and spent summers at the country club, swimming for hours on end and eating our weight in burgers and ice cream sandwiches. In 1976, his job transferred to the Netherlands for a 14-month assignment and we were catapulted into a new and vastly different world. While most of the ex-patriot families lived in large homes with thatched roofs and elaborately landscaped yards, he opted for a small row house with a narrow, winding staircase and a swath of Delft tiles around the living room hearth. We were flanked by families who spoke broken English (at best) and were immersed in Dutch culture. My bedroom was an aerie on the top floor with a clear view of the town’s windmill. I attended school with diplomats’ children and participated in a model U.N. (my country was Lesotho). When one of my friends (daughter of the U.S. Ambassador) invited me to a dinner party, her house staff called my mother to review dress code and protocol. I sat next to Yitzhak Rabin, Israel’s Prime Minister at the time.
From early on, my father ingrained in me the power of daring to be different. One particularly indelible memory is of his help with a junior high school assignment to build a mobile of our solar system. When I described the teacher’s recommendation to twist a metal coat hanger and hang paper planets from the helix, he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “No no no, that won’t do. The planets are at different distances from each other. That wouldn’t be right. We’ll do it our own way.”
With a hanger, wire cutters and cardboard, we created a solar system of free-floating planets, suspended in unique orbits around the sun. It was different from every other one in the class, and I took great pride in explaining how and why my dad helped me design it that way.
Which was pretty cool.
A brain tumor took his life at 71, a short two months after diagnosis. For a man with such keen intellect, the rapid and tragic loss of cognition was all the more devastating. The only saving grace was that the trajectory rendered him unaware of what was happening. That’s my hope, anyway.
Which is a lot.
My dad had a brilliant mind and a heroic heart. He was stern, funny, loyal and loving. As a young girl, I followed him around on Saturdays, helping him with chores and running errands to the hardware store (I still love the smell of wood shavings), the liquor store (I always got a lollipop from the cashier) and the fish store (to replenish his aquarium). I watched him repair our stone wall, work on his grey Corvair, fix just about anything that broke, cut the grass. He converted half of our basement to a dark room and installed a red light outside the door so we knew not to barge in while he was developing. I learned how to create ‘negatives’ with a machine called an enlarger, dip prints into a series of chemical baths and hang them with clothespins from a string above his workspace. He loved the sea and spent hours upon days building elaborate ship models, attending to every small detail with what seemed like tireless focus and fervor. A strict disciplinarian, he had no tolerance for rudeness or disrespect. Equal parts kind and salty, his moodiness only made him more fascinating to me.
Back when such a thing was still possible, my father was a career IBM guy. We attended grandiose company Christmas parties and spent summers at the country club, swimming for hours on end and eating our weight in burgers and ice cream sandwiches. In 1976, his job transferred to the Netherlands for a 14-month assignment and we were catapulted into a new and vastly different world. While most of the ex-patriot families lived in large homes with thatched roofs and elaborately landscaped yards, he opted for a small row house with a narrow, winding staircase and a swath of Delft tiles around the living room hearth. We were flanked by families who spoke broken English (at best) and were immersed in Dutch culture. My bedroom was an aerie on the top floor with a clear view of the town’s windmill. I attended school with diplomats’ children and participated in a model U.N. (my country was Lesotho). When one of my friends (daughter of the U.S. Ambassador) invited me to a dinner party, her house staff called my mother to review dress code and protocol. I sat next to Yitzhak Rabin, Israel’s Prime Minister at the time.
From early on, my father ingrained in me the power of daring to be different. One particularly indelible memory is of his help with a junior high school assignment to build a mobile of our solar system. When I described the teacher’s recommendation to twist a metal coat hanger and hang paper planets from the helix, he raised one bushy eyebrow and said, “No no no, that won’t do. The planets are at different distances from each other. That wouldn’t be right. We’ll do it our own way.”
With a hanger, wire cutters and cardboard, we created a solar system of free-floating planets, suspended in unique orbits around the sun. It was different from every other one in the class, and I took great pride in explaining how and why my dad helped me design it that way.
Which was pretty cool.
A brain tumor took his life at 71, a short two months after diagnosis. For a man with such keen intellect, the rapid and tragic loss of cognition was all the more devastating. The only saving grace was that the trajectory rendered him unaware of what was happening. That’s my hope, anyway.
Don’t Believe Everything You Think
February 2017
My friend actually suggested this to me a few months ago. I was sharing a story about how I felt when someone said something crappy to me. And by crappy, I mean infuriating, marginalizing, made-me-want-to-smack-her kind of crappy. My friend listened intently, and then made the suggestion with a straight face, as if she really meant it. “Nancy, don’t believe everything you think.” I laughed at her (obviously), but felt stupid for laughing when I realized she was dead serious.
In an effort to redeem myself I asked, “Exactly how does that work? Do I look at myself in the mirror and say out loud, ‘I don’t want to be really pissed off right now, so I won’t,’ or ‘I refuse to let this irksome thing that’s happening right now irk me.’? Do I have to be more specific? How long does it take before I feel better? Does it involve traveling to Narnia or barreling through a train station wall?”
The fact is, I explained, I don’t choose my feelings or decide when they’re going to strike. I can’t control what I feel. I react to my world. Things hit me however they hit me. I can’t help it. Right???
Maybe not so much.
It sounds like a pipe dream, like willing it to rain or trying to blink away a crow’s foot. Even worse, it smacks of a bumper sticker sound bite, staring back from the kick line of dog paws and stick figures, making the red light seem inordinately long. But it was delivered to me in earnest, from a woman I deeply respect and who deeply respects me. And, while it took a bit to wrap my head around the concept, I soon came to realize its breadth and girth. Humans, after all, are meaning-makers, but wouldn’t it be arrogant to assume that one person’s take on a given situation is the absolute truth? If so, what would be the point of political debates, religious sermons or car commercials?
This led me to the stark realization that, while we can accept how we feel about things as irrefutable, we can also choose to change how we think .
I started experimenting, first on a relatively small scale. “Just because I think this pair of slacks makes my ass look like a barge doesn’t mean it actually does,” or “If I don’t want to meet him for dinner, I don’t have to explain why.” I eventually graduated to a pithier realm, “I’m not causing her passive aggressive behavior. It’s not about me. It’s all she is capable of.” Before I knew it, the practice was paying off. “I may think I can’t do this job, but I’m wrong. I can. I CAN.” I was able to negotiate some pretty slippery roads while keeping control of the wheel. It was new and hugely empowering. That’s not to say there were no lapses along the way, but the fact that I was aware of them, meant I was aware of the choice.
At one point on this revelatory journey - during a beach vacation - I walked into a boardwalk shop that reeked of coconut oil and was organized like a maze of dried starfish, mermaid statues and shark tooth jewelry. There, among the mass of Chinese imports, hung a small yellow plaque with bright green lettering: “Don’t Believe Everything You Think.” I marveled at it, hanging there in all its sound-bite glory, abutting a rack of dog paw and stick figure decals. This fist-sized souvenir somehow validated my mantra. It’s on this plaque, therefore it MUST be true.
I bought every one.
Okay, so I probably can’t make it rain and have certainly made some ill-advised slacks purchases. But let’s face it; crow’s feet serve the vital purpose of keeping our feathered friends secure on their phone line perches. And that’s the thought I will choose to have when sizing things up in the less-than-flattering dressing room light. Don’t believe everything you think.
Go ahead, say it out loud. You might surprise yourself.
In an effort to redeem myself I asked, “Exactly how does that work? Do I look at myself in the mirror and say out loud, ‘I don’t want to be really pissed off right now, so I won’t,’ or ‘I refuse to let this irksome thing that’s happening right now irk me.’? Do I have to be more specific? How long does it take before I feel better? Does it involve traveling to Narnia or barreling through a train station wall?”
The fact is, I explained, I don’t choose my feelings or decide when they’re going to strike. I can’t control what I feel. I react to my world. Things hit me however they hit me. I can’t help it. Right???
Maybe not so much.
It sounds like a pipe dream, like willing it to rain or trying to blink away a crow’s foot. Even worse, it smacks of a bumper sticker sound bite, staring back from the kick line of dog paws and stick figures, making the red light seem inordinately long. But it was delivered to me in earnest, from a woman I deeply respect and who deeply respects me. And, while it took a bit to wrap my head around the concept, I soon came to realize its breadth and girth. Humans, after all, are meaning-makers, but wouldn’t it be arrogant to assume that one person’s take on a given situation is the absolute truth? If so, what would be the point of political debates, religious sermons or car commercials?
This led me to the stark realization that, while we can accept how we feel about things as irrefutable, we can also choose to change how we think .
I started experimenting, first on a relatively small scale. “Just because I think this pair of slacks makes my ass look like a barge doesn’t mean it actually does,” or “If I don’t want to meet him for dinner, I don’t have to explain why.” I eventually graduated to a pithier realm, “I’m not causing her passive aggressive behavior. It’s not about me. It’s all she is capable of.” Before I knew it, the practice was paying off. “I may think I can’t do this job, but I’m wrong. I can. I CAN.” I was able to negotiate some pretty slippery roads while keeping control of the wheel. It was new and hugely empowering. That’s not to say there were no lapses along the way, but the fact that I was aware of them, meant I was aware of the choice.
At one point on this revelatory journey - during a beach vacation - I walked into a boardwalk shop that reeked of coconut oil and was organized like a maze of dried starfish, mermaid statues and shark tooth jewelry. There, among the mass of Chinese imports, hung a small yellow plaque with bright green lettering: “Don’t Believe Everything You Think.” I marveled at it, hanging there in all its sound-bite glory, abutting a rack of dog paw and stick figure decals. This fist-sized souvenir somehow validated my mantra. It’s on this plaque, therefore it MUST be true.
I bought every one.
Okay, so I probably can’t make it rain and have certainly made some ill-advised slacks purchases. But let’s face it; crow’s feet serve the vital purpose of keeping our feathered friends secure on their phone line perches. And that’s the thought I will choose to have when sizing things up in the less-than-flattering dressing room light. Don’t believe everything you think.
Go ahead, say it out loud. You might surprise yourself.
