mom

Last year, she scared the hell out of us, and I realized the extent to which I take her for granted. As of this very moment, I'm house sitting/cat sitting/plant sitting/turtle sitting for her. There's a whole lot of sitting involved at Mom's place, and I have to catch myself when I start resenting that this responsibility falls in my lap every couple of months. I have to catch myself when I start feeling taken for granted. There's a little of that, sure. Of course there is, but I have to stop and consider how many times Mom has saved my ass. Granted, there's a whole other psychological and experiential history to all of this that I could start picking apart (and I have), and Mom and I certainly have our differences (and equally relationship-stunting similarities), but it boils down to this: she's doing the best she can, given her experience and I'm doing the best I can, given mine. We get hung up sometimes in our own versions of the truth, pride, anxiety, and moods, losing sight of the spectrum of perspectives, but in the end we both want the same things: for all parties to be healthy, happy, and secure.

Right now, as I sit at her dining room table writing this entry, I am acutely aware of the comfort I feel in her house. I remember that I am responsible for it when she is away because it is my home too, and I am grateful. This home is alive with her, and it's difficult to wrap my thoughts around the notion that she's winding down. She is what makes it home. Her open arms maintain this open door and this safe harbor.

Her mom, my grandmother, died after an extended, painful bout with cancer in her early--maybe mid--seventies. I didn't know her well, despite seeing her every Christmas. They weren't the most hands-on of grandparents and my primary memory of her has her sitting at her desk in front of the bright window in her bedroom. In my memory, she is always writing in her journal, smoking a cigarette. I am intentionally leaving out the more interesting, human details of this memory, because to include these would be to paint a less than flattering picture of her that wouldn't do justice to the dignity, grace, and poise that seemed to be woven intricately into her character. She and my grandfather, both, had a strong presence.

As I said, though, I didn't know her well, and beyond this memory, hers was my first introduction to death. I was around 12 years old and I remember only a few things about that time: that she was ready to die, and I was told she cried every morning she woke up, still in pain, still incapacitated. I remember that she didn't want pain medication because, even on her death bed, she didn't want to find herself addicted. I can only guess that part of this notion was not wanting her mental capacities to be as broken down and useless as her body felt. She still had her mind and her pride, and she wasn't about to give those up with everything else.

I also remember feeling bad that I didn't feel much. I thought I should be crying, but it didn't feel like my loss. It was everyone else's. It was a loss for those who were connected to her, and my only connection was one of blood, not heart. Now that I'm an adult, I feel the absence more I think. It's a curiosity, though. Not pain. I imagine she was an interesting person: tough, funny, beautiful, exciting and enchanting... but I don't know about loving or nurturing or tender or understanding. This woman that I never really knew is one of the infinite influences to the ins and outs, the quirks, the personality, and the character that comprises Mom. But, there we start going into the psychological stuff. It's interesting and it helps us navigate our relationship, but for the sake of this post, I'd rather just look at Mom. Does it matter what the individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle look like, once it's put together? Nope.

Anyhow, Mom is coming up on her 66th birthday, and while she's very healthy, alive, and kicking (and building things, and gardening, and working, and painting, and playing tennis, and maintaining a general state of almost constant movement) she's made no bones about preparing for her eventual and inevitable departure from this world. My grandmother was also active and full of life, as I understand it, right until she got sick; and Mom has brought up the fact that she is nearing the age my grandmother was when she passed.

Whatever time we have left, whether it's 5 years or 45, and however we treat and see each other, whatever our differences, mistakes, hang ups, hold ups, blind spots, or misdirections... I'm grateful. I hope our time is longer, rather than shorter. I hope our bags don't pollute too much of our interactions. I hope we laugh more than we argue. And, I hope the Monsters, my infant niece and her soon-to-arrive baby brother, get a chance to personally know the magical, loving, nurturing, hands-on grandmother she is. I appreciate every day she continues to fly, spin, and buzz past go.

thinking

Would you think I was weird if I told you how often I think about death? Maybe you already picked up on that-- given the content of this blog.... Maybe that's why I started this blog.... because the general public gets all squeamish and uncomfortable.

Sometimes I feel guilty and ashamed of my thoughts because I don't really want to die, and I know there's this social expectation of preserving life at all cost. For example, look at hospitals and retirement homes: keeping people alive through complicated procedures simply out of a fear of liability. Keeping people alive who's bodies are telling us that they are clearly ready to move on from this life, but our system... but we--out of fear or obstinacy or selfishness or whatever it is--insist on keeping people alive, even when they're ready to die. In doing so, we rob death of its dignity, and dignity can be found in death if we allow it. Death is an inescapable, integral part of life. 


So, yes. I think about death. I also say "so" a lot in casual writing. Bear with me. I'm already stunting stream-of-consciousness writing by using appropriate and proper capitalization and it's cramping my pinky fingers. Silly grammar.... Anyhow, I enjoy living, but I think I understand when people tell me they're simply done with it. I get that part. I don't believe death has to be sad or feared by the person who is ready for it. I'm not so much speaking of active suicide, as one with major depression or anxiety disorder might. I simply consider how things might be if I just didn't wake up... or if I got--through no fault of my own-- some fatal illness. The notion doesn't upset me. Granted, I fully acknowledge the possibility that I'm completely, batshit crazy wrong--and the notion of pain doesn't thrill, to say the least, and I don't dare intend to minimize the horror anyone goes through who experiences such illnesses--but right now I feel like I could let go of life as I know it. I wouldn't want to hurt those that love me, but I don't have children so I don't believe that anyone fundamentally depends on me. I just feel like, from my own self-centered, severely limited vantage point--even though I enjoy life and I plan to continue on that same happy trajectory--I could bow out at this high point in my life.


It's not like my thoughts are not limited to when things are "bad" and I'm feeling like the sun will never come out and the grass will never grow. Rather, I think about death pretty consistently. I think about it when things are bad, knowing that bad stuff happens and it's just a phase and things always get better with a little motivation and determination. Then, I think about it when things are good too. I guess it's like fantasizing about quitting while I'm ahead, taking away the chance of failing. Quitting before anything gets bad again. This part is anxiety, I guess. It's not a helplessness hopelessness thing. I am perfectly capable of offering and receiving help and maintaining hope. It's what I do for a living, and I love what I do: helping people develop insight into hope and strengths and meaningful existence. I practice gratitude and I love to love and  I love to experience and feel and share. I love the movement and experience of life.

As I mentioned before, however, the gravity of fatal illness such as cancer and the death of loved ones is not lost on me. Death and loss is sad. It can feel like the very fabric of our soul is being brutally shredded. The universe takes away that which is most important to us. We are stripped of our reality when we lose that which has shaped our lives, that which is most important to us. Our movements change. Our thoughts change. Our routine and our paradigm and our interactions change. Death strikes hard, so I'd like to think that I do not take life for granted. 


I'd like to think that my appreciation of death is the major contributor of my passion for life. We don't have forever, so make the most of NOW. I don't smoke; I eat my veggies and whole grains; I exercise; I work, relax, and have fun. I love people. I strive for balance, and I encourage and mentor others to do the same, but without expecting perfection. My job is all about the facilitation of emotional and physical wellness, and I LOVE my job. I want people to live well and take care of themselves. I want people to enjoy the limited time they have with one another. I want to make the best of everyday, and perhaps that is the point here: making the best and the most of everyday, and living fully and simultaneously within the joy, sorrow, titillation, pain, chaos, order, surprise, and predictability. Living this way could suggest all loose ends are mostly tied at all times. To me, living this way means I don't have to fear death, necessarily. It means I've lived well, whether I live to see the next hour or the next 60 years. It means I'm celebrating life. Of course, all of this is easier said from the nosebleed seats than from the front row, I imagine. At some point, I'll get a closer look and feel and experience, and we'll see where all of these pretentious notions get me when faced with the Reaper, front and center. 

And this is where maybe I'll allow a little more of the feeling from the original draft of this note to peak through. Why not? It's honest. While I already mentioned that these feelings and notions are present through both good and bad days, I originally wrote this without the sense of peace and hope and tranquility that I feel now. It was a bad day. I originally wrote that...(original draft starts here)... perhaps somewhere in me I don't believe that I deserve this life. I don't believe I am capable of living it well. I am ordinary in the midst of the extraordinary. The hobgoblins that anxiously scratch the walls of my mind suggest that I will always let people down or that people will always let me down. Perhaps it's because somewhere in me I don't believe I am worth their enduring attention or love or loyalty. Psych-speak: family of origin stuff, re-enacted throughout life's pre-insight decisions. And, fucking hobgoblins. This all sounds so pathetic.... I'm even ashamed and anxious about my thoughts of being ashamed and anxious.... but that, of course, is simply a part of depression. This is where I have a choice, and my choice will create a new light over a different path. I will remember hope, I will take care of myself and those I love, and I will continue to pass go.

some thoughts on Morrie...

So many people are terrified of dying. More than that, though, I think people are afraid of living. We seem to get so caught up in living perfectly that we forget that there's no such thing. At any cost, almost, we try to avoid looking silly or being wrong, and in such avoidance we end up missing out on life. Our hearts are closed. We don't call attention to ourselves. We don't want to dance because we might not have rhythm or we may stumble or we don't know the right moves. We don't sing for fear of being off key. We don't try new things because we might not get them right. We are prideful. We don't open ourselves up to all the possibilities the world has to offer. We fight love. We see assistance as an affront to our independence and autonomy. With all that said, if we don't know how to fully live, how are we supposed to know how to die? Then again, Morrie postulates that knowing how to die is the answer to knowing how to live. 


     Morrie’s revelation was born of the fact that he felt like he was lucky. Given his drawn out death sentence, he was grateful to have time to continue learning, to teach what he learned, and to say goodbye. Not everyone gets such an opportunity, which is why the lessons he taught are so profound and pertinent to not just dying well, but to living fully without regrets like pride, vanity, and hardness of heart. In the end, not everyone gets time to forgive themselves or others. He felt lucky to have a chance to atone for some of his regrets, to forgive others, and to forgive himself. This lesson suggests that one of the greatest tragedies in death is the legacy of regret that stains all that is left behind.

       With this in mind, the world is not going to stop. Responsibilities, pride, and social norms will always have pull in the decisions we make—Morrie spoke of the “tension of opposites”—but, in order to live happily, we have to decide on our priorities. “Love is the only rational act.” He suggests that fulfillment and meaning in life can only be manifested through love—love not limited to family, friends, and community; but extended to our lifestyle and actions and how those things reflect back onto ourselves, our family and our community. For example, juxtapose Mitch with his girlfriend. Mitch gives up music for a lucrative career in sports media. He makes work a priority and loses touch with those and that which are actually most important to him. He loses touch with his music, Morrie, his friends, and he almost loses Janeane. Janeane, on the other hand, while her story is not as detailed as Mitch’s, loves to sing, so she makes it a priority. She also loves Mitch, so she tries to make him a priority. She structures her life so that everything that is important to her—everything she loves—has its place. Thus, she has fulfillment through love. Mitch gets his priorities confused in his misconception of what it means to “grow up” and has to relearn that lesson.

      But why does he get confused? Because to love and be loved is frightening. It takes courage to love work that might not be lucrative or successful. It takes courage to love a community that might disappoint you; and it takes courage to love people, knowing that you could lose them at any moment. It takes courage to risk failure. Loving leaves a person raw and exposed to all the emotional elements, and our society is uncomfortable with strong emotion. Thus, there's a lot to be afraid of in fully living and loving. Failure and loss are very real things, but without taking the risk of encountering them, the lives we lead are empty of meaning. We spin our wheels until we die, never having experienced anything of any substance.

            Morrie understood that death was the last journey in life, and he faced it with courage, pizzazz, and dignity. He made his death just as meaningful as his life. He used his life to experience joy, to teach and be taught, and he did the same thing with the process of his death. He filled his life with meaning through relationships, education, experience, laughter, food and dance. He saw life as a journey, and I won't argue with that. Life is our journey. Death, ultimately and without escape, is our destination. The decision rests in our hands with regard to how we experience our journey and, inevitably, how we die. We have the choice to make it a joyful, playful, loving, fulfilling, meaningful, musical, colorful journey. I believe that the more color with which we paint our lives, the more meaningful our death becomes. Morrie’s colorful life became his meaningful journey into death that has, throughout the years, continued to teach and touch those willing to listen. 

      And I'll end with a song that's been in my head, if you'll humor me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTZS3K0xa9I

dying well, living well

Throughout my start in this field--especially while in grad school--friends and family have seen the books that I read, the journals I research, and the projects for which I volunteer. Invariably, they have responded with the notion that this must be the most depressing, difficult career ever; and they would be hard pressed to want to read the things I read or do the activities I do. Actually, I tell them, it’s emotional, it’s profound, and it’s great. While the concepts of loss and death certainly evoke intense grief and various other emotions (which we, as a culture, typically avoid), it is possible to reframe the experience to find meaning. Death does not have to be viewed as a problem, but rather as an integral, natural part of life. Death is not inherently undignified. Additionally, while the experience of loss and grief is unique to each individual, they are normal aspects of life and emotional wellbeing. The most recent book with which my friends have been uncomfortable is Dying Well: Peace and Possibilities at the End of Life by Ira Byock, M.D., and these are some of the issues he addresses via stories of individual experiences with death.


Regarding his own experience, Dr. Byock discusses death being treated in the medical field, unconditionally, as a problem. Efforts are made in almost every situation to prolong the life of the individual admitted to the hospital, and the stories he cites suggest that it is treated this way out of fear of liability. Even at a sickly ninety-two years old, one woman's distant family did not want to withhold intensive treatments to prolong her life because they would then feel responsible for her death. Our society seems to base its treatment of the terminally ill on the misconception that if we do not prolong life (even in atrocious, painful, or near-death contexts), then we are the ones ending it-—we become murderers. Thus, hospitals and nursing homes, as Byock suggests, are stuck in a precarious situation. Even professionally knowing that someone is about to die, due to any cause, these institutions must be able to prove that they did “everything possible” to keep that person alive, lest the family/friends hold them liable for the death. It is not, therefore, death that is the problem, but perhaps our misguided fear of it.

“I wondered what it was permissible to die from…. even passings that should have been peaceful turned gruesome” (p. 27). As it is fear that is the problem, not death, death does not have to be undignified. It seems that our fear of it and our subsequent reaction to its inevitability are what create any perceived indignity. Byock suggests that by allowing people to reflect on their imminent death, and by opening a safe space for them to experience the emotions that accompany it, people may have a dignified, meaningful, and fulfilling end of life experience. They can confront their fears of being burdensome or of suffering—-he stresses that pain can, in fact, be managed—-as well as fears of solitude and family debt. They can take the opportunity to tie up emotional loose ends and find closure on unfinished business. Some examples: Ira was able to care for his father. Anne Marie reconnected with her sister and daughter. Some of Ira’s patients were able to let go of anger and forgive. Others held on to life long enough to achieve meaningful goals, and all that were mentioned were able to transition out of life peacefully and with dignity.

“‘What would be left undone if I died today?’ and ‘How can I live most fully in whatever time is left?’” (p. 34). These are two very simple, important questions. We take so many things for granted in our daily lives-—especially time. There will always be time to mend that relationship, to apologize, to pay off debt, to quit smoking, to climb that mountain, to learn a skill, to laugh, to cry, to express love. Then, at some point, daily life becomes daily death. It is only when the end and the loss of time becomes almost tangible that so many of us realize that we have a lot of frayed, loose ends to tie.


And with that in mind, I continue to enjoy the spectrum of experience and interactions that constitute life. I will continue to pass go. 

getting older

Getting older is inevitable, sure. I'd like to think, though, that sensible shoes and elastic waistbands are not. Nor do I think the potential for questionable decisions and jackassery should necessarily be reserved exclusively for or exhausted in youth. I admire those who live and grow old with pizzazz!

fear and serenity

If I could have a wish, it would be to live life and face death and suffering with grace.... with peace, love, and serenity in my heart. I wish to hold no fear of pain or mortality. Fear resonates throughout life's decisions and its relationships. It withers hope and limits joy. So, to be able to live serenely, without fear of judgement--or any form of emotional or physical suffering-- could enable us to love unconditionally. This does not suggest living without caution or responsibility. It would mean living fully in relationships-- to ourselves, family, friends, community, nature, and the world! It would suggest real connection.

And for me, it could mean I wouldn't have to fear having children. Maybe I could start allowing myself that dream. The world may mistreat them. They may mistreat the world. They may kill or be killed.... But would I exchange all of the joy of family and love for a solitary life based on fear of sadness and suffering? I realize now that this was the reason I didn't want my own biological children for so many years: fear of suffering, fear of a dying world, fear of adding to the pain. But what if we face our fear of dying? What if we accept it as part of life? What if we understand suffering as a lens through which to better understand happiness? Wouldn't we be more likely to enjoy life? What if we didn't fear inconvenience? Wouldn't we be more likely to appreciate simple things? What if we didn't fear judgement? We'd be able to enjoy our genuine selves and we'd be able to openly love and be loved....

loose ends

Back in 2009, I wrote my original "Death Wish" for my Loss & Grief class on my way to getting my master's in counseling. It was one of the best classes I ever took, and I've considered, every year, writing a new one. Things change. Things move. Life is fluid. Granted, the entirety of the original still stands true, but I feel it's now lacking substance. It lacks the last few years. So, here goes....


Loose Ends: I’d just like to say…

If you’re reading or hearing this, the house is empty. I’ve moved out and on. If there’s a way to leave a forwarding address for messages I’ll be sure to get that to you, but the truth is that I have no idea where I’ve gone. Perhaps I’m in heaven. Perhaps not. Maybe my energy will manifest as a plant. Maybe the dirt. Maybe the worm. Or maybe music? Or art? Then again, there are so many people I could happily haunt. My ghost will--BOO--jump out of your Cheerios and giggle when you squirt milk out of your nose. I’m just kidding folks. I won’t hide in your breakfast, but if there’s a way, I’ll visit just to check on you and show you that I’m alright. 

Wherever I am, I sincerely hope you remember me with imperfect fondness. I have decided that I don’t really believe much in perfection. Life’s more interesting and sincere without that weight to bear. However, I hope that people who remember me—as well as those who meet me through your memories—won’t judge me by my tattoos, my poor choices, the many mistakes and wrong turns I made, or my poor spelling (spell check is both a blessing and curse!). I hope that I led a life that made my family and friends proud. I hope that I did something, however small, that spread some good in the world. I also want my friends and family to know that they inspired me to be a better person. They are the super glue that connects everything. They should know that they are responsible for my belief in angels, because they are angels walking the earth. I would start naming you all right now, but that would take way too long. So instead, just look around you and don’t forget to know, deep in your heart, that you’re an angel too. Thank you. I love you.

I did a lot of things while I was alive. To an extent, each stint and experience suggested to some that I was a flake, incapable of committing to anything and, perhaps, unable to find happiness; and, to an extent, there’s some truth to that. I had been a flake and overly noncommittal at times; but I enjoyed sampling what life had to offer. I found happiness in new beginnings. I wanted to try a little of everything, and while, because of this, it took me longer to find a suitable long-term path for myself, I ended up in a great place on a colorful journey. Ironically, P, you helped me learn stability and commitment. I am sincerely thankful to you for that. I’d like to think that all my detours opened my heart and mind, allowing me to love more deeply and live more fully. 

Angelface, I loved the person I thought you were more deeply than I ever thought I could love anyone. It was a gut-wrenching lesson, but thank you for teaching me to love without losing myself and to hurt without hating. Thank you for teaching me to set boundaries and defend myself. I only regret that my boundaries weren't more firm until after you took my trust for granted, familiarizing me with unnecessary shame and fear. That being said, I take with me to my grave many sadnesses about abuse, pain, and withered dreams, but I'm eternally grateful for the the difficult lessons learned. I wish you happiness and healing.

Sunshine, thank you. More than you might ever realize, you helped rebuild trust, hope, and love in the midst of an enormous paradigm shift. Thank you for being so wonderfully, genuinely, lovingly you. 

Chickens, Faces, and Wedgies, words will never be enough to express my gratitude for you. I'm overwhelmed thinking about you all. You are amazing, dynamic, beautiful, inspiring people.

Anyhow, had my life been significantly longer, I’m sure I would’ve taken a few more turns for the better and the worse—I had dreams of someday living sustainably and hosting travelers from all over the world in some kind of inn/hostel/farm—but I’m content with where I left off. I was doing what I loved and I was surrounded by wonderful people. I found joy in friends, family, work, and all of life's abundant adventure and tranquility. When it comes down to it, besides all the losses, setbacks, doubts, mistakes, and pains that are inevitable, life was profoundly good. 

I turned 33 this year. Wow. That’s pretty young to be dead already, huh? Mom, Dad: you’re probably thinking this is all backwards and I wasn’t supposed to go before you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to feel all of this hurt and try to make sense of something that will never seem right. If I could have, I would have waited, but, as it is, I couldn’t and I led a really full life. I did my best to live colorfully and fully in the time that I had, so I hope I’ve left you with plenty of memories to make you smile when you think of me—I at least would like to think that the good ones outweigh the not-so-good ones! That was a joke, but only sort of. I know I wasn’t perfect, and I caused you a lot of pain and frustration, and I’m sorry for that. 

Dad and Mom, you both played very significant roles in contributing to who I was and what was important to me. From both of you I learned to value honesty, independence, education, decorum, manners, laughter, positivity, and healthy living. From you, Mom, I learned to value nurturance, stability, responsibility, tact, dependability, commitment, work ethic and loyalty. You were my rock and my safe place, and you scared the crap out of us all last year. Honestly, that was a good kick in the pants not to take you for granted. Dad, you taught me the value of creativity, spontaneity, adventure, and questioning of the status quo. You were my wings. I imagine, had I lived longer, we'd have found a way to work through our differences and speak again. Anyway, thank you both for everything that you are. There was no doubt a lot of overlap in what you each taught me, and I’m so proud to have had you as my parents. 

Q, I’m so proud of you. You were always my hero, and I can't even begin to express to you how much your support meant to me in rough times. I really hope it'll be your beautiful family's Cheerios that I get to hide in. I love your wife. She is definitely family in my little book. And maybe I can be the Monsters' invisible friend!

Now that all that’s said, to whom it may concern, please don’t take up precious land space with what used to be me. I’m not there anymore so please cremate my old body. I obviously don’t need it anymore. Then, throw the ashes in a river, a lake, an ocean, a mountain, to the wind… whatever! Well, maybe not whatever. Not that I think you’d do this, but I’d appreciate not being thrown in the cat box or down the commode. Just saying…. Some kind of little ceremony with some good food and good music to bring people together would be nice. 

Also, with regard to dress code, give me a break on the black. Feel free to wear it—maybe that’s your thing—but throw in something colorful and/or glittery/sequiny/shiny. Something festive or funny. I know you’re grieving right now, and that’s quite all right because, wherever I am, I miss you too. Cry all you want and need to. Anyone who knows me well knows that I’d be crying too. A lot. I’m crying while I write this, for goodness sake! I suppose what I’m saying is this: my death is sad. There’s no reason to treat it like it’s not; but my life was good and fun and colorful. Mourn my death, but please celebrate my life. 

On that note, I encourage you to continue celebrating your own and everyone else’s life too. I can’t work on these things for myself anymore, but I see the value in them, so here you go: Try new things. Quit worrying (like I too often did) so much about getting it wrong. Create. Eat. Hug the people you love. Don’t be stingy with love—it comes in plenty of forms and you never have to run out if you keep your heart and mind open. Easier said than done, I know. Talk to each other. Take care of each other. Be kind and honest and accountable—with others and yourself. Apologize. Forgive. Feel. Play. Sing. Dance! Slow dance, line dance, two step, one step, salsa, merengue, bomba, hand jive, dirty dance, crunk dance, chicken dance, ANY dance. Just dance. Rhythm (or lack there of) is beside the point. Just experience life. I believe you can create profound meaning in the context of how you live. You already did it for me, so keep going.

And I’ll end there, except for this. Here is a little playlist for you. Each of these songs has touched me at some point—made me smile, made me sing, made me dance, or reminded me of people, places, times, or ideas I’ve cared about (or I just thought they’d be cool to play at a memorial service!). There are many more—MANY more, but these seem pretty good to start: 
I’ll fly away (Alison Krauss, Gillian Welch), Threadbare Gypsy Soul (Pat Green), I’m Comin’ Home (Robert Earl Keen), Friends in Low Places (Garth Brooks), Try Me, Get up off of that Thing (James Brown), Video (India Arie), Dublin Blues (Guy Clark, Peter Rowan), Get it Together (Beastie Boys), Waiting on an Angel (Ben Harper), She Talks to Angels (Black Crows), Change (Blind Melon), One Love (Bob Marley), anything from Buena Vista Social Club, On & On (Erykah Badu), That’s Life (Frank Sinatra), Proud Mary, Let the Good Times Roll (Ike and Tina Turner), Waiting on the World to Change, Say (John Mayer), I Hope You Dance (Lee Ann Womack), Ain’t So Lonely (Lucero), Just Fine (Mary J. Blige), Say Hey (Michael Franti & Spearhead & Cherine Anderson), Cancion del Mariachi (Los Lobos & Antonio Banderas), Ya Viene el Sol, Dos Cosas Ciertas (Ozomatli), Trouble (Ray LaMontagne), Into the Mystic (Van Morrison), and Angelface's song.

And now, help yourself to the dessert bar....