Author: Shara Clark

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Compassion Is Endangered

Can I positively influence those around me? (Photo: Eva Bronzini | Pexels)

I’m back, y’all. I had to let everyone — including myself — cool down after my last column, “The Problem With Memphis.” The post blew up on Facebook, with well over 1,000 reactions and as many comments, the last I checked. I don’t believe that many people actually read what I wrote. In fact, I know they didn’t; we keep up with how many clicks each story generates. And that’s what got a little under my skin. Folks are really out here commenting whole paragraphs about an op-ed they didn’t read. Or just plugging in the poop emoji, whatever. If you want to continue hating on Memphis, go ahead. I’m not going to defend me defending our city. If you want to know my thoughts, you can click the link — not just read the headline. (Those of you reading an ink-on-paper hard copy, bless you. I see you — reading! That’s great. We love you, really.) 

My attention span isn’t what it used to be because of the little black mirror tethered to my hand. Doomscrolling has presumably affected the way my brain works. Little hits of dopamine keep me tied to the phone, tapping from app to app, and so I’m guilty at times of not reading the whole article. (Shame on me.) But I wouldn’t air my grievances on a post I didn’t read. It’s just — people are so mad. And they got me fired up, too, and the next week I wrote a reactive column, pasted the words in the computer program we use to get them from a Google doc to a designed page. And then …  I deleted the whole thing. Because I am not that person. And I am not going to be another bump on a log spreading this infectious negativity. I guess we agree to disagree and move on. Ugh, y’all almost got me!

If you haven’t determined by now, I’m a little sensitive. (But also a total badass, fyi.) So this task — writing to you all here — is a vulnerable one. I don’t want to use the space to rant about all that is wrong with the world and the people in it. There is too much wrong to even tackle that. So I tend to take it all in and try to put it in context. I inevitably look inward. How can I positively influence those around me, or my community? What steps can I take to help? Is there even anything I can do? I don’t always find immediate answers to those questions, but I know that by being empathetic, watching out for my neighbors, caring for the wellbeing of people beyond my circle of friends and family, I am better equipped to be on the right side of things. None of us will make a change — for ourselves and beyond — screaming expletives from behind a keyboard or arguing senselessly with strangers online. What are we accomplishing? More division. 

If you’ve read this far, I have a task for you this coming week. Give someone a compliment — a quiet co-worker, a stranger in line at the grocery store — I bet they have cool shoes or pretty jewelry. Check on a friend — many are silently struggling financially, emotionally, or otherwise — a simple text could remind them you’re there for them. Give yourself a break — self-care is the best care. A lot of things are broken right now. Do not let it break you! Compassion is endangered. But we can lead by example. Be vulnerable in standing up for what you believe. Be supportive, be genuine, be kind. I may not have solutions to the city’s — or the world’s — problems, as some out there seem to expect I should. But I know where we can start. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Problem With Memphis

There is a realness here that can’t be matched.(Photo: Sean Pavone | Dreamstime.com)

Memphis has a perception problem. It’s apparent any time you read comments on local news posts regarding crime — “That’s why I got out of there.” “Oh, another one. This happens every day.” Or when you tell someone where you’re from — “It’s easy to get shot there, isn’t it?” “It isn’t safe there, right?” Of course, those of us who live here are aware of crime, the poverty and sub-par education system that contribute to it. We hear about shootings, robberies, carjackings practically every day if we’re tuned in to the news. And that’s part of the issue. There is a rift between reality and perception that is perpetuated by media, then spread far and wide by media consumers. 

On July 1st, the Memphis Police Department shared a graphic on Facebook showing that in the first months of 2025, overall crime was down 20 percent, with shooting incidents down 28 percent and murder down by 15 percent compared to the first half of 2024. On July 23rd, the Memphis-Shelby Crime Commission released a report showing slightly different numbers, with the overall crime rate dropping 15.7 percent during that time frame and the rate involving offenses with guns falling 12.4 percent. While the misaligned numbers raise some questions, they may be attributed to differences in the way TBI and MPD track reported crimes, which our news editor Toby Sells touched on in a May story — “Homicide Capital? Maybe” — after FBI Director Kash Patel deemed us so on Fox News. 

Regardless, crime is falling, but people wouldn’t know it by keeping up with the news. And that is what our guest writer, Ole Miss journalism student Grace Landry, explored in this week’s cover story. She spoke with crime reporters from local news outlets on how reporting for clicks feeds into this negative narrative. “If it bleeds, it leads” is not the best approach — we must consider victims, their families, and the community as a whole, all of whom are affected. 

I’ve lived in Memphis since I was a student at U of M, somewhere in the vicinity of 20 years. In that time, I’ve had my car broken into (more than once), been threatened at gunpoint (and knifepoint, and bat, uh, handle). I’ve had a bike stolen from my porch. I personally know someone who was carjacked, shot, and left for dead; someone who was a victim of a random interstate shooting; someone whose addiction had them buying crack at a gas station Downtown; someone who bounced from dope house to dope house in southwest Memphis, was trafficked, and was homeless before dying from fentanyl/heroin overdose; someone who ended up on the streets of South Memphis with a bad drug habit and a pimp, and was ultimately murdered. (Jessica Lewis’ 2011 killing is still unsolved. We haven’t forgotten, MPD. Please reach out to us. My email is at the end of this column.)

You may wonder, if I have seen all that, if I know all of this is happening in my city, to my friends, to me, why would I stay here? Why would I defend Memphis? That’s a great question, and one that I have been trying to find the words to answer for a while. There is something to be said about adversity and survival. Something to be learned from the harshness of the city’s frayed edges. There is proof here of it all. Good and bad. Grit and grind. There is a realness here that can’t be matched, a truth we can find between the dark and light if we peer deep enough. And there is clearly a ton of work that still needs to be done — in underserved communities with at-risk youth, within the police department, in Memphis-Shelby County Schools, and beyond. 

As a small-town Mississippi native, I chose Memphis as a college destination for its diversity and its location in a not-too-big “big city.” I knew there was much for me to learn beyond what was required for my degree, and I would not learn that in the Delta. My scope of view would have been terribly limited. Here in Memphis, I have seen the beauty of the community coming together in tragic times (Tyré Nichols, Eliza Fletcher). I’ve seen the thriving music and arts scene. I’ve seen love and hope and connection in equal measure alongside perceived danger, fear, and flaws. This city has taught me so much. It has hurt me and helped me. It has toughened me and inspired me. This imperfect place is home, and I’m happy to share it with you all.

Shara Clark

shara@memphisflyer.com

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Hawks Are Circling

The hawks are circling. (Photo: Joe Grossinger | Dreamstime.com)

Chris tells me I’m the only person who can float on their back. I know this can’t be true. But when my niece and nephew were over for the 4th of July weekend, we tested his theory. Each of us attempted a graceful float in the pool, with me the only one able. “You literally do nothing,” I instruct them. “Just gently push your legs up from the bottom, lay back, and let go of control.” I do that and float to the top like a fishing bobber. Everyone is impressed at my mostly useless skill. 

Besides being the best thing that happened to an aunt with the kids over for a few summer days, this 3-foot-deep, 15-foot-round treasure — gifted to me by a friend (thanks, Laura!) — allows plenty of room to float. No need for an inflatable, just me on the surface, thinking, not thinking, letting go. Ears submerged with only my face exposed, I meld into the sky, drifting with the clouds. Different shapes appear as the fluffs shift and separate and swirl until they move on or dissolve into a sea of white. Different shades of green leaves tousle in the breeze above me as light and shadow play between them. I drift until I no longer feel my body. Some days it’s gray, and those are good float days, too. But I’ve found, with all this sky-watching, that the hawks are always circling. 

I begin to notice their patterns, mostly figure eights in the sky, sometimes impossibly hovering mid-air, maneuvering their tail feathers with precision, using the mechanics of that impressive wingspan to soar and turn and rocket down toward prey upon sight. Today, I watched a pair, what appeared to be a street or so to the north, do their neighborhood rounds, eventually making their way overhead. They split off to more efficiently cover ground, I assume. Maybe one of them noticed me noticing it because it lingered a little longer over my yard, circling above the pool and my floating body. I got a good look at its movements and coloring, a beautiful bird. But also a bit ominous: the circling, scouring the earth for its next victim. 

Ears under water, I hear my breath, loud against my muted external surroundings. I think about two people we’ve lost within the past month; one to suicide, another to overdose. I think the hawks could represent death — the reality for us all that no one wants to mention, looming. Maybe they instead represent anxiety — the pervasive and intrusive thoughts that make us feel less than or underappreciated or imperfect. Circling in our minds. I wonder what things must have kept my friends in the shadows, what circled incessantly overhead. 

I think about how every person, from all walks, from simply living life has some form of “hawks circling.” How so many forget that. You judge. You don’t listen. You become so buried in your own existence that you lose empathy. You disagree and argue. You don’t open your mind to the ideas of others. You criticize without offering solutions. Suddenly, everyone else has mental health issues but you. Criminals of any kind are scum. Immigrants are no longer human. Addicts have made their choice and won some often-cited “Darwin Award” for big dummies who want to die. Hate is the norm. It’s best to stay out of comments sections on social media if you still have a shred of compassion. It’s a dangerous place out there. The hawks are circling. 

But floating in the pool, suspended in a sensory-deprived state, my thoughts go back to all the people we’ve lost, to the people who are still struggling. I hear my breath, I feel an aching tinge in my chest, and I let go. The hawks glide around above, but I close my eyes and fade into self, whatever that presence is deep within, behind the thoughts. I can no longer feel my body, but that spirit, that inner knowing, tells me I’m safe. Everything is okay. Even when the hawks are circling. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Remembering Cheyenne Marrs

Photo: Cheyenne Marrs | Facebook

It happened. The thing none of us wanted to happen, happened. 

Before we get there (here), let me rewind. In 2016, I reconnected with an old friend who, in the years since we’d seen each other, had fallen deep into the hole of addiction. Within a few weeks, I was taking her to Heroin Anonymous meetings; thankfully, she was willing to go. Soon it became a carpool to HA, piling five-deep into my Honda Civic to rally for recovery for Kristin, Nik, Semalea, and Cheyenne (all friends I’d lost touch with). Aside from meetings, I tried to keep us busy doing as many everyday-type things we could do, well into 2017. Me, desperate to help my friends; them, along for the ride, with still-drifting minds. They eventually slipped back into their own worlds. I dreamed they wouldn’t lose sight of the hope we shared. 

I lost Kristin to overdose in 2020, which I wrote about in a Flyer column, titled “Heroin, the Thief.” Nik left us in 2021; Semalea in 2022. And as deeply as it hurts to say, Cheyenne lost his years-long battle as well, on July 3, 2025. 

Cheyenne Marrs was a lifelong musician, and a personal friend for about 30 years. I can hardly look at Facebook since the news broke Sunday because it’s filled with memorial posts I’m not prepared to see. But seeing them — from other Memphis musicians, people he’d helped along their own recovery journeys, the mother of his new daughter, his family, and many friends — has shown just how much of an impact he made, even as he walked in his own darkness. He was connected to the fabric of this city, whether he served you a cup of coffee at Java Cabana, cracked you up with his goofy sense of humor at an open mic or elsewhere, made you feel comfortable at a recovery meeting, caught your ear from on stage at a local venue, or asked you for a cigarette (IYKYK). 

Cheyenne was always making music, able to impressively play any instrument, sing, and write since youth. Music was in his genes and woven into every aspect of his life. I wrote about his solo debut album, Everybody Wants to Go Home, as a Best of Memphis staff pick in 2023, shortly after its release. We don’t usually cover our friends, but the recognition was well-deserved. It wasn’t because he was my friend; it was because it was a damn good album. I listened to it a dozen or more times, beginning to end, before writing about it. (And kept it on repeat long after.) 

Cheyenne had recorded the bulk of the album while on drug court, working toward a year of sobriety at the time, if I recall. In the album’s lyrics, he so poignantly described the roller coaster of addiction, the void that can’t be filled, the push and pull of recovery attempts, the devastation and isolation in the wake of it all. I heard it as a healing album, but in retrospect, it was as much a confession: Addiction is a dark and lonely place, and I can pretend I’m okay sometimes, but it keeps knocking, and I don’t know how to stop it.  

Cheyenne was like many brilliant, sincere, effortlessly creative people who get lost in the depths of addiction. An artist’s awareness can also be their greatest cause of suffering. Cheyenne felt deeply — you can hear it in his music. Sometimes all those big feelings become too much. Sometimes we have to watch our loved ones fight the urge to numb those feelings, fall, and get up again. Hoping they get up again. I wish Cheyenne, my dear, sweet friend, could have been that HA success story. But, sadly, it happened.  

I’d hoped the next time I wrote about Cheyenne or saw him in the Flyer’s pages, it’d be upon the release of his next album, one he was working on before his recent “slip,” as he called it. But here we are. I listened to Everybody Wants to Go Home in full again while writing this. What a beautiful gift he’s left us. What a tragedy. 

Cheyenne sang throughout the record about a home he couldn’t pinpoint. A yearning to get out of this place “everybody knows not to visit,” “this hell, all alone,” to a safe place without suffering.

I hope you made your way home, my friend. We love you.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Playing Telephone

Milosluz | Dreamstime.com

Remember the “telephone” game from elementary school? The teacher would tell a student on the front row a “secret,” and that student would pass the secret on, whispering it into the ear of the kid in the desk behind them, repeating until each person had heard and passed the secret all the way through the classroom. The last in line would then tell the class what the secret was. In every case, the message had been misheard, wrongly told, or changed along the way, turning the original into something different. The truth morphed as the message went through 30-some-odd children, and it showed us youngins you can’t always believe what you hear, and this was how rumors spread. Today, a much larger game of telephone, via the internet, is being played. 

This is especially apparent in comments sections on social media, particularly pertaining to the political landscape. Or even in the “news” itself. Everything is funneled through filtered algorithms, biases, and, these days, even AI trickery, making the actual truth nearly impossible to pinpoint. For example, regarding the recent protests in L.A., there were two different basic stories: 1) These were successful peaceful protests, and 2) These were chaotic and destructive riots caused by the protesters themselves. A peek into that rabbit hole could lead to other strange places: i.e., the rioters were paid MAGA actors, sent to escalate the situation, or there were no riots at all. Deception is too easy, and so is believing something you already want to believe. Confirmation bias does not a fact make, yet someone will take a bit of info they scrolled past online, without even reading the story or doing any research, as fact — and pass that on to everyone they know. Every share, every retelling changing ever so slightly until we don’t know what is what. I wasn’t in L.A., so I can’t tell you with absolute certainty what happened. But plenty of people out there, from Memphis to Nowhere, USA, have come to their own conclusions based on what they’ve seen and heard in their echo chambers. 

As a test, my boyfriend and I compared some of the news-adjacent info filling our separate social feeds, and we found a lot of contradictions. Stories in his feed supported the deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, who was painted as nothing but a criminal, a gang member and human trafficker. Mine, however, showed a person wrongfully taken, and people working diligently and passionately to bring an innocent family man home. This is but one example of current events being skewed in one direction or another to sway the people. What you deduce depends, to some degree, on your previously held beliefs. Many lump all illegal immigrants into one category: criminals. And that is clearly not the case. Even now, Trump is backtracking on his deportation crackdown to exclude some service employees, like those working at hotels, farms, meatpacking plants, and restaurants. So the illegal immigrants who do dirty work, who “serve” us, can stay? But we were told they were all bad! Where is the logic? 

In a nonpolitical example of how misinformation spreads, take this past weekend’s unsuccessful Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival in Manchester, Tennessee. The four-day fest was canceled on its second day due to rain and flooding in the venue’s campgrounds. I watched the drama unfold in a Facebook group, where reactions ranged from disappointment to full-blown anger. Some insisted this was Live Nation’s plan all along — to cancel after a full day of events so they could get an insurance payout. Others gave the organizers the benefit of the doubt, saying they had no other choice but to call it for everyone’s safety. People vehemently argued both sides. “I heard xyz!” “Well, I heard this and that!” In the end, none of us truly know the reasoning or motives, if any. Sorry to rain on your parades. 

Speaking of parades, while the president’s big birthday bash went on last weekend — to the tune of an estimated $40 million in tax dollars — millions took to U.S. streets to protest against him. From the videos circling, the crowd at the Army’s 250th anniversary celebration looked more like one at Overton Park on a Sunday afternoon, surely not what Trump had hoped for. One clip showed a tank slowly screeching its way down the road, no cheers to be heard over the chalkboard-scratching squeal. It appeared as though someone needed to lead the defeated-looking Trump to bed for a nap. But, for the record, I wasn’t there. 

In today’s world, with so much information control, conspiracy theories, and algorithms programmed to stir the pot, it’s more important than ever to do your own research, check sources, and do your best to discern truth from fiction. Don’t be a victim of the telephone game. 

Maybe I’m suffering from political fatigue. Maybe many of you are, too. Now, with even more tumult stirring here and abroad, what are we supposed to be but exhausted? My boyfriend jokingly asked me last weekend, “So what are you wearing to World War III?” My response? “I’m probably just going to go lay down.”

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

I Don’t

Defining success in terms of marriage is misguided. (Photo: Rui G. Santos | Dreamstime.com)

On Monday, the Tennessee state House approved the “success sequence” bill in a 73-20 vote. The bill, which would require the state’s public schools to teach a specific life path to “success,” previously passed the Senate in a 25-5 vote and is now headed to the desk of Governor Bill Lee for signing. That life path: education, marriage, kids. 

In fact, the text of HB0178 focuses heavily on marriage as the crux of a “successful” life: “WHEREAS, children raised by married parents are more likely to flourish compared to children raised in single-parent families; and WHEREAS, children raised in stable, married-parent families are more likely to excel in school, and generally earn higher grade point averages than children who are not; and WHEREAS, children raised by married parents are about twice as likely to graduate from college than children who are not; and WHEREAS, children not raised in a home with married parents are twice as likely to end up in jail or prison before reaching thirty years of age …”

Perhaps data somewhere shows these things are more or less likely for children who had both parents around, but setting curriculum to teach youth that marriage is a required part of a “successful” life is an overstep. Will they, too, teach how to maintain a successful marriage? According to the National Center for Health Statistics, approximately 41 percent of first marriages and 60 percent of second marriages end in divorce. In 2021, the most recent state report showed Tennessee had a divorce rate of 3.3 per 1,000 inhabitants. And in 2024, U.S. News & World Report listed Tennessee among the top 10 states with the highest divorce rate. A crucial piece in teaching marriage as an asset would be teaching people how to navigate the commitments, challenges, and changes of marriage. 

State Senator London Lamar, raised by a single mother, recently commented on the bill, noting it implies single parents are “less than.” “If you are not married, it does not mean that you are less than anybody else. I think this bill is misguided, it’s very offensive, and I’m living proof that this bill has no merit,” Lamar said.

I’m no senator. But I have what some may consider a successful life and career. My parents divorced when I was 5 years old, but I excelled in K-12, graduating with the fourth-highest grade point average in my high school class (a difference of mere tenths from valedictorian). I finished college at University of Memphis summa cum laude, with the highest GPA among all graduating journalism students that year. I held jobs while earning an education, taking an internship here with the Flyer as a working student. Dedicated to this publication, and with immense respect for the talented people with whom I work, I took positions in various departments to stick around — editorial, ad sales, advertorial — and wrote/edited for other magazines published by Contemporary Media. Through the years, I learned the ins and outs of the processes that make this thing work. In 2022, my bosses deemed me fit to run the whole Flyer shebang. I’m grateful and honored. 

I’m also childless (by choice) and have never been married. I knew at a very young age I didn’t want children. And marriage is not for me. Do my life choices make me less than? By not following a rigid “sequence,” did I somehow fail?  

Did my parents parting ways make me a bad kid? A dumb kid? A kid with less potential? No. My mother struggled at times as a single mom. But through her, I learned perseverance, determination, and the value of hard work. I knew that for most people, success (however it’s defined) would be a climb, and not a straight one — and that I was most people. I think the fact that I’m here, writing love notes to my dear city on a regular basis — and that you’re here, reading my words — is, by some measure, success. 

Marriage and kids not required. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

I Need To Write Something

There’s no knowing where we’re rowing … (Photo: Movieclips | Youtube)

I need to write something. 

It should flow from fingers to keyboard automatically, no long pauses to consider the next thought or word. It’s all there, just below the surface, beginning to bubble up. That’s how it usually works. I’ll attach to an idea, a line of poetry, an encounter, or a moment, and after a few days of simmering in the recesses of my mind, somehow unknowingly, on its own, everything comes together and spills onto the page almost effortlessly. But not lately. 

There are too many pots boiling over at once. Especially, of course, in the political landscape. Every day a new executive order, a new hit to marginalized people, another bash to the face of democracy. The shifts are coming fast and hard, whether we like it or not. It’s too much to keep up with, let alone make sense of. The president of the United States is Willy Wonka and we’re all aboard The Wondrous Boat Ride. [*Flash *flicker *horrifying imagery *wild man at the helm] (He’s even offering $5 million “golden tickets” for wealthy immigrants!) I envision the man-child and his sidekick (who is who can go either way) skulking in a darkened room, “Is this frightening enough yet? Have we confused them enough to do whatever we want?” 

“There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going! There’s no knowing where we’re rowing, or which way the river’s flowing!” 

The stage is set for major bamboozling, with waves of stunned, newly unemployed federal workers, swift cuts to crucial programs, and, surely, impending lengthy legal battles over the many unconstitutional and immoral moves being made by this administration, seemingly to obfuscate the masses. We’re fighting one another in comment sections online, pulled apart between “Making America Great Again” and genuine empathy for our neighbors. Do we not care for the poor? The hungry? Humanity in general? Unfortunately, the leader of this nation is a reality TV host and we’re the forced cast, pitted against each other in a battle to … a battle to … Well, I’m not entirely sure the desired outcome beyond the rich getting richer while the rest of us find side hustles to fill our fridges and gas our cars for the work commute. While we argue each other into the ground. They don’t want us to know their desired outcome. We’re fighting the wrong people. 

So sometimes, with all of those thoughts roiling the pots in my brain, nothing sticks. There isn’t a particular thing to cling to for clear direction or inspiration. Too many things; so much noise. But I need to write something. Put it all in one place, outside of my mind. Maybe I’m not there yet. 

Maybe I’ll hold onto these words from Charles Bukowski for now. 

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth  

… don’t do it.

…

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you, then wait patiently.

…

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness …

don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don’t do it.

There is a red-hot glowing now, a warm pit in my stomach. I’ll see you back here when it burns.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Dazed and Confused 

This month made the Flyer editor try meditation. (Photo: Pop Nukoonrat | Dreamstime.com)

January has been a rough year, huh? United States citizens, torn apart like never before, have been inundated with a ridiculous array of presidential orders and policy changes dumped on us in an absolute whirlwind of nonsense in a matter of days. An emboldened and strange billionaire troll — who’s pulling political strings even beyond our scope of understanding — is not-so-subtly showing his true colors in front of the entire world. And, still, half of the folks we share this country with can’t agree that he and the guy who promised to “Make America Great Again” have more than a couple screws loose — and do not have our best interests in mind. 

Lucky for you, I know that you’ve heard enough about this. You’ve processed or are still processing — maybe dissociating? Heh. Whatever the case may be, I’d bet we’re all more than a little dazed and confused in the dust of what’s happened since Inauguration Day — and under the looming worry of what’s to come.

So one thing I’ve done in recent weeks is meditate. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being an excellent meditator and 1 being the worst, I’m at zero. Maybe even -2. I am absolutely no good at quieting my anxious mind. But meditation is called “a practice,” so I’m practicing. I have some random app on my phone that had been sending me notification nudges to meditate every day for months. I, of course, ignored those notifications because who has time for that? Honestly, I ignore most of the notifications I receive. They never stop coming, and I can’t keep up. Those reminders to drink water or weigh myself today or log a journal entry— well, they’ll have to wait. At least until after I respond to a few dozen emails and contact the post office about why my package hasn’t been scanned in three weeks and call my insurance about charging me for medication that was previously covered. There’s always a big, long to-do list, right? But, if I understand all this correctly, that’s why meditation — if you can get there — is important. 

There are all sorts of videos on YouTube you can access, playlists on Spotify, and probably a million other free meditation resources online. I’ve started with short, 5- or 10- minute guided meditations. It’s often frustrating because I can’t for the life of me see the meadow or the stream or the sunny sky they’re guiding me to see with my mind’s eye. There’s no staircase and no open window. And I spend an awful lot of time telling myself that I need to stop thinking. Thinking about thinking is not meditating. The point is not to think, right? Or to get past the thinking you and directly to the heart of consciousness? I really don’t know because I’ve never done it. But some people swear it does wonders for their love and appreciation of life, letting go of worry, increasing creativity, and on and on. Dive within, yes?

I guess for now, it’s good to at least put 10 minutes aside to lie with eyes closed even if I’m thinking about not thinking. I can certainly think of worse things to do and worse things to think about. And hey, meditation might be woo-woo to you. You don’t have to do it! I’m willing to try just about anything that’ll help me find some peace and purpose. Both are incredibly important, especially now when things feel so out of control. Take a 10 from the chatter and fear.

Amid the dust and the rubble, we may not be able to see the stream or the meadow or the shining sun, but they’re there, somewhere … in the stillness, beyond the dark. No matter what, don’t stop looking. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah … (Photo: Tlakebluemoon | Dreamstime.com)

You’ll notice a couple of places in this issue where I’ve been named responsible for the “New Year, New You” cover story. That dang editor is at it again! The truth is, the Flyer has done some form of this theme for as long as I can remember for its first issue at the turn of a new year. It had its place on the publication calendar long before I took the helm, so, objectively, for this edition at least, we’re still the same ol’ Flyer despite annually rallying for a “new you.” (Former editor and longtime “New Year, New You” “responsible party” Bruce VanWyngarden finally let the intrusive thoughts win this round; see “New Year, New Ewe.”) 

Anyhow, we like you exactly as you are! And you get bonus cool points just for being here. But if you’re thinking of reinventing yourself, exploring new activities, or (not-so) simply putting the phone down for a change, our writers have some thoughts for you. 

If, like me, resolutions aren’t your thing, maybe you’ll take a lesson in something I’ve learned from my dad: zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Let me explain. My 60-something-year-old father is the primary caretaker for my paraplegic brother, a commitment he fulfills with love and grace. He’s the family’s black sheep — outspoken, a country boy through and through, perhaps a bit wild — if you believe the stories (hint* they’re true). By most accounts, his life hasn’t been easy. Through the back-to-back deaths of my grandparents, my brother’s health challenges, nearly two years of sibling squabbles over estate matters, (minor outbursts aside) my dad remains as calm and cool as can be. “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,” he says as he tells me my brother threw a fit to be discharged from the hospital. “It’s another wonderful day!” he responds when I call stressed out over … any of the many things that stress me out. “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,” he replies when I swear everything is falling apart (it’s not). 

Before I go any further, I’m aware of controversy over the 1946 Disney film from which the line “zip-a-dee-doo-dah” was pulled. What I’m writing here has nothing to do with that. Please don’t hang me out to dry! Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, for my dad anyway, is a way of life, a motto by which to live. It’s closely akin to “hakuna matata” — which, thanks to The Lion King, we all know means “no worries.” Maybe I should have used that as the title of this piece instead. No one has anything bad to say about The Lion King. (Who am I kidding? You name it, someone’s got a gripe.) Oh well. The idea is to stop taking things so seriously. This has been a longtime battle for my overthinking, overanalyzing brain: Everything is serious! Something could go wrong at any time, and what do we do then? Let’s ponder every possible, surely horrible outcome! 

So that is what we won’t do this year, okay? We won’t be guided by fear. We won’t expect the worst. We won’t agonize over things that haven’t happened yet. Instead, we will let go of what we can’t control, or the need for control. We’ll smile through the hard stuff. When life starts life-ing a little too hard, we will say to ourselves, quietly (or loudly to really drive it home), “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah!” And you’ll know when it’s time. A flat tire? Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Water heater went out? Zip-a-dee-doo-dah. Editor asks you to write another “New Year, New You” blurb? Zip-a-dee-doo-dah! Much like “hakuna matata,” it’s a “problem-free philosophy.” 

We’ll still run into problems, of course. But maybe we’ll look at them as opportunities. Maybe we’ll start with small steps to address the ones we want to fix. But we certainly won’t worry. There’s just no sense in that. We’re going to go with the flow. We’re going to let that sh*t go. My dad says so, and that’s that.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Early Golden Hour

Would you just look at that? (Photo: Shara Clark)

Well, folks, we’ve made it to the last stretch of 2024. I know my least favorite season of the year is settling in when 4 p.m. is the golden hour and the breeze starts biting. It’s so very cold (unless it’s not; Memphis winters are finicky like that). It’s damp and the fallen leaves lie decomposing on the lawn. You’d think being a January baby I’d enjoy winter, but it’s not just the weather outside that’s frightful. 

Target is packed! Every sweet grandma within a 20-mile radius has come to my Superlo to gather ingredients for this year’s holiday feasts, jamming the aisles as they stop to socialize. My biweekly food subscription box has been stuck on a FedEx truck for three days! There are way too many drivers on the streets looking at their phones! Did they even notice they pulled out in front of me? And stay away from Poplar Avenue! As my colleague Toby Sells joked on Slack the other day, “That right lane needs a surgeon general’s warning.” That goes for all year, but even more so now. The town is full of elves scrambling to find gifts for everyone on their “nice” lists, and I just want to buy dog food! Bah, humbug! 

I think that feeling hits for many of us this time of year. It’s counterintuitive to be out buzzing around when the sun sets at 5 p.m. and the temps dip near freezing. Our bodies want to rest and recover, hunker down and bundle up. But we’ve got to hurry! Christmas is just a few days away and heaven forbid Uncle Dan doesn’t get his gifted garden shears! If you click “buy now” it might make it to him in time! And then there’s that issue. This pressure to spend more money than you should on presents for people who love you whether you get them that gift card or not. As much as I love to see the holiday spirit alive in little ways — the lights, the yard Grinches and Santas — it pains me to know that these things trigger bad feelings, too. For those missing a spouse, parent, or pet; for those whose paychecks don’t allow the type of gift-giving they’d like to do; or those who will spend New Year’s alone longing for connection. So while you’re out spreading holiday cheer, remember it’s not so cheerful for everyone. Some are simply trying to get through.

Back to my rant above. I know I’m lucky to be able to buy my dogs’ food even if I have to fight through traffic and long lines to get it. I’m blessed to have loved ones to share the holidays with, even if some are spread across the states and all we can do is FaceTime. A phone call can be as good as a hug if it needs to be. I don’t even shop at Target very often, and my food box will arrive at some point. If it’s spoiled, oh well. The real elves — our USPS, UPS, FedEx, Amazon, and other delivery drivers — are busting their butts to ensure our many, many purchases make it to their destinations. If those gifts are late, guess what? Cousin Sue will still be delighted if her present lands in January. 

Speaking of January, this “double issue” of the Memphis Flyer will be on stands for two weeks while our staff enjoys a holiday break. Our writers have shared their thoughts on 2024 — and projections for 2025. On a normal year, I’d have done a recap as well, but as regular readers know, this year was a bit of a flop for me, with more than half of it spent recovering from a broken foot and three surgeries. I’m on the other side of that now with minimal lingering discomfort. After a roller coaster of a year, here’s hoping we can all enter 2025 the same way. May “minimal lingering discomfort” be 2024’s swan song. 

In the meantime, be kind, slow down, express gratitude, give yourself grace. We don’t have to do anything, really. We get to. Reminding ourselves of that when things become overwhelming can do wonders. For now, I’ll embrace the early golden hour that colors my chilly neighborhood walks, and the biting breeze that lets me know I’m alive and awake and all is well, however cold. I get to be here, with you and the migrating birds and the carolers and Scrooges. And that’s pretty darn cool. Wishing you all warmth and love this holiday season. See you here next year!