While we were in college, my then girlfriend, now wife, Danielle, introduced me to the poetry of Naomi Shihab Nye. Though I was not reared on poetry or the merits of prose, most of it soaring far above my head (sorry, Bill Shakespeare), I was readily drawn into the world and words of Mrs. Nye. I know next to nothing about iambic pentameter, free verse, or the various types of rhyme patterns, but hers was unlike any poetry I had ever experienced, tender, graceful, plain-spoken, humorous and utterly human.

The first poem of hers I read – rather Danielle read to me from a class assignment – was titled “The Traveling Onion”. She then read me “Famous”. I was hooked. Finding a used copy recently of one of her newer collections, 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East, I have found great pleasure in reading excerpts at bedtime, sometimes aloud to Danielle, before nodding off for the night.

Nye, a resident of San Antonio, TX and of Palestinian descent, so richly communicates the richness of her ancestry that it is hard to conceive of any world culture failing to make peace with one another all these millenia, and explosions, and deaths later. Is it possible that our planet would be a safer, more sane, more peaceful place were it not for the stubbornly powerful of the world? Nye never sinks to pointing fingers, but with the humility of a painter, she instead draws pictures with words describing the everyday beauty of the individual, Palestinian, Jew, American or otherwise. National governments will not spare this world its peace; only the individual choosing to love and honor his neighbor offers that sort of hope. Nye shows that, though we are made to believe we are vastly different, in actuality the cultures of the world have more beauty in their common humanity than any newscast could or would ever bother to convey.

An elderly Palestinian man in worn coat and tie reaches up to pluck a fig from his backyard tree with such joy that one must smile from half a world away at the very thought of the sky and the soil and Yahweh finding pleasant agreement in the scene. These are the types of moments she is so adept at depicting, and I am grateful to be reminded of my own simple place in the turning of the earth, my own richness in the world, my own silk in the woven tapestry.

A few years ago Danielle went to visit her sister in Florida. I elected to stay home. She left me an assignment for the week: write a song based on Nye’s poem, “The Traveling Onion”. I wrote, then, what amounted to the comparison of a career in music to that of the translucence of an onion, tears, flavor, stench, subtle texture and all. The song, of the same title, will be included on my newest and forthcoming album due out this spring.

“Answer if you hear the words under the words — otherwise it is just a world with a lot of rough edges, difficult to get through, and our pockets full of stones.” (from “Words Under The Words”)

Only good news here.

Danielle gave birth to our second child, a fine boy, on this the day of our Lord, Sunday 15 February 2009. Weighing in at a moderate and healthy 8 lbs., 2 oz., Monroe Carle Peters stirred vigorously towards the light, swallowing the atmosphere with a vengeance at 13:30 hours. He seems to possess a calm and dignified demeanor, which agreeably suits his parents. Mother and child are resting and doing quite well. We are grateful for this good, good day.

On a recent Saturday, my neighbor Matt, a medical physicist by trade and a fellow lawn & gardener at heart, hopped into the van with me for a show I had in the western piney hills of Georgia later that night. Matt had no idea what he was getting into, but I think he still likes me even after seeing what an “exciting” life I lead as a touring, albeit mostly unemployed musician neighbor.

Before pulling away, I entered our destination address (believe it or not there are two “Butts Mill Roads” to choose from in Georgia) into “Genevieve” (see previous post), and away we went through Chattanooga, Atlanta and on down I-85. Just outside of the big concrete city, we stopped for gas and a Dunkin Donut. Not 10 minutes later, I peered ahead and saw a horde of red taillights on the interstate ahead, so I quickly exited and put my faith in Genevieve to extricate us from the looming nowhere goings. I had second thoughts more than twice as we careened down two-lane highways, but she absolutely and authoritatively rejoined us to the interstate just past the traffic woes. I was not only proud of Me Lady, but giddy that we were spared those miles of stop-and-go traffic thanks to her calm, collected, well-informed reasoning. I think Matt was more than a little impressed with Genevieve, and whereas before he was hesitant to purchase one of these devices, he now foresees as a dandy investment. That was Matt’s first convincing experience. His second was another 45 minutes down the road.

In the final stretch down pseudo-paved roads, Genevieve called out “Arriving at destination.” I laughed incredulously. It was pitch black, I could see nothing except the halo glow of dashboard lights, and I was absolutely certain I had initially entered the wrong address since there was nothing at all resembling a restaurant (the venue) out here in this Georgia farm country. I’m not a genius, but I know the middle of nowhere when I can’t see it. I remained highly skeptical up until the very moment I turned into the supposed driveway not 50 yards from the building itself. Genevieve 3, Eric zilch.

Since Matt inquired, I told him that each show is different in that I never know what to expect upon arrival. I don’t know if he expected a fine arts theatre replete with lush, red velvet seating and gray-whiskered ushers, but what he witnessed was slightly different. I was to play a short set that night at a homecoming banquet for a small, private school. While the handsomely dressed ate amid the clinking of glass and utensils in the restaurant, myself and the school principal (i.e. the sound man), a nice gentleman and very adept sound tech, sound-checked in a separate, adjacent building down the path. Since I could see next to nothing in the darkness, I gathered that this building might have been a converted horse stable. But it worked fine. I wish I could have seen the place in the daylight. All in all, I really enjoyed myself and the chance to meet the person responsible for bringing me in – a well-spoken high-schooler mature well beyond her years. I’m certain I played far too long for some of the high school audience members who were quite obviously bored by my antics, the glazed faces and the glow of texting phones being a dead giveaway.

We loaded the van and were on the road by 10pm. Matt was kind enough to take the wheel an hour or two later and, listening to Louis L’Amour books on tape, drove the remaining three hours home. I failed him as a navigator (I fell asleep in the passenger seat), but, again, that’s what Genevieve is for.