Muse

I am the sum of my friends. Each person I've met, every interaction, every encounter, every relationship, has contributed something to making me. 

I was 8 when I discovered that I heard music differently than the people around me. That intrigued me for a short time; it puzzled me longer. Then, sadly, it frightened me. That's a different story for another time. For some intuitive reason, I kept this realization to myself a while.  Like say, 19 years. 

By the time I was 27, there was a woman on the 6th floor.  The way I remember it, she grabbed me by the collar and shook me a little and said, referring to my music, "it's not a hobby, kid. This is who you are!"

I wonder if that's the way she remembers that conversation. We've had lots of conversations about all kinds of things. European Travel, Rural Homesteads, Children's Books, Sitcoms and Websites and Ceviche. 

She says things that amaze me.  Honestly, she has a way of saying that one thing I would never have thought of in a million years. Yet once I've heard it, I think how blindingly obvious it ever was. 

She lived with me many years. I wish I had more pictures. 

And of all the things she said to me, I wonder if there will be any more important than this: 

"it's not a hobby, kid..."

A single phrase to describe my friend Suzanne: Gypsy Dancer Muse

Lunch With Thoreau

Lately my life is a string of perfect days. Blue sky... Green field... Light Breeze... Adam's on his way with food. 

I'm comfortably sun-warm.  It's just past noon.

On the other side of the generator and the crew van, there's a crane set-up.  I've been told it will be used for a shot later in the day. Past the crane and the Box truck, past the horses,  I can see three figures frolicking through this gorgeous country afternoon. Two kids and a grown man. 

Adam arrives with the food, fried rice with veggies and chicken lo mein. Good stuff. Always nice to see you, Adam. 

About this time the trio quits playing and heads over to the table, the rest of the film-crew in tow. Everyone settles into a well deserved lunch break and conversations scatter in various directions. 

There he is again, sitting alone this time, the frolicking man, eating nuts and berries out of a broken pot, wearing the expression of one who sees more than meets the eye. I am curious about a grown man who chases dreams through fields and eats berries for lunch.

photo by Leslie Foster

I've met few with such varied and exciting life experiences as the man I sit with today. He regales me with stories, challenges me with questions, blesses me with wisdom. I feel as though I've stepped into an earlier century. 

He tells me how his life went from complicated to simple. He tells me stories that will be continued later. Maybe back in Los Angeles, where things move faster. 

Back in Los Angeles,  his name is Christopher Ackerman, actor, author, musician. 

photo by Leslie Foster

Here in Collegedale, Tennessee, his name is Henry David Thoreau. 

He was summoned through time from 1847 to this field by director Melody George, whose short film "Marbles With Thoreau" is in production for 2008 release.

Maybe I will have opportunities to learn more about Chris when we get back to California. I'm looking forward to it.  That can wait...

Today I'm having lunch with Thoreau. 

Poppa

I was at the home of my mentor and friend Dan Bumstead, and we were talking about something or other that seemed significant at the time. In retrospect, I am amused that my indelible memory of the moment has nothing whatsoever to do with the topic of conversation. 

What I do remember is that in the middle of our conversation, Dan's son Christopher came into the living room from playing outside.  He surveyed the room and took in the interaction his father was having. I can only speculate at the internal dialogue that ensued...

"That Lennox guy's talking to dad again. Seems they talk a lot these days.  Boring grown-up stuff..."

I wonder if there was ever a moment of hesitation before he walked between us, hopped onto Dan's lap, curled up in a ball and said "hi Poppa."

For the slightest fraction of a second, Dan took his eyes from me, placed his hand on his son's head and said "hi Chris."

An instant connection was cemented and we resumed our conversation, Christopher curled securely, oblivious to our exchange, safe, content in his place of shelter and comfort, the cares of a 7-year old forgotten, the world irrelevant.

I remember thinking, that's how I'd like to relate to God. I would love to know that I can wander into his living room while the universe hums and planets whirl by, while nations and kindreds await his command, and desperate hearts seek his consolation. I would love to know that in the middle of the conversation, without summons or appointment, 

I could climb into his lap and with absolute confidence of my welcome say "hi Poppa"

And he would put his hand on my head and said "hi Len"

Sometimes after a hard day I do that. 

When I do, I'm picturing a young boy in a small town, retiring from a hard afternoon at play, seeking neither audience nor authority, simply craving the comfort that is presence. 

A single phrase to describe my friend Daniel Bumstead: Smiling Mentor Poppa Missionary