Hasta La Gadget!

I am annoyed at this season of Game of Thrones. Other than Jon Snow coming back, literally no questions have been answered for me that I had after last season. With the season finale coming soon, you might need some eats for your geek friends who are coming over to watch with you.

If you like your friends well enough to bake goodies for them, you need this Game of Thrones embossed rolling pin to make your sweets. I like fresh-baked cookies, but typically I stick to the dough that comes in a tube at the grocery store.

The pin has the name of the great houses on it along with their sigils. When you roll out the dough, it embosses the names into it, though if you are anything like me, the chances of being able to read any of that stuff after the cookies are baked is slim. Cut-out cookies always exit my oven looking more like a blob of nothing than what Pinterest thinks they should be.

Get your own GoT rolling pin on Etsy for about $35.

[via That’s Nerdalicious]

Tribune stations went dark on Dish Network earlier this week, making it difficult for some customers to watch the NBA and NHL championship matchups. The TV provider is dealing with another sports-related dispute too, and this time it’s with the NFL….

We all know fear – or at least the feeling of fear that shows up as a racing heart, tightness in the belly, sweaty palms or swirling thoughts. We avoid the situation or lash out in anger, expressions of the fight or flight response that evolved to help us survive real and imminent danger. We would not want to wish it away, for that would mean sure death.

However, in our world of relative safety, this millennia old survival response begins to also construct fears. “What if”, “I have a feeling that”, “Something tells me” are largely a figment of the imagination of a psychological self that simply strives to safeguard a failing sense of self-worth. We end up reacting in ways that limit our ability to grow, experience life and live with freedom and boldness.

How then do we tame our fears and move beyond the conviction of impending disaster? The answer, handed down the ages from contemplative traditions, and now tested and researched by science, is the following: We need to face our fears.

It sounds deceptively simple. And yet, putting it into practice takes courage, vulnerability and the willingness to face the memories, beliefs and experiences we have long silenced. However liberating the outcome, the journey isn’t wrought with roses. Years of avoiding our fears has strengthened the neural networks that convince us of our inadequacies.

So here is a simple technique to begin the rewiring process – one that will luckily not get rid of fear, but which will allow you to bring conscious attention to it, so that you learn to recognize it, and then offer it the kindness and care it really seeks. This will give you the courage to step up and respond in ways that are aligned with your highest self – and in the process build your inner self-worth.

Recognize the feeling of fear
Most of us skip this first step – which is why we get run over by our emotions. In those fleeting moments before an emotional hijack, our body is our best indicator. Perhaps it’s a racing heart, or tightness in your belly. Perhaps it’s tension in your shoulders or stiffness in your jaw. Connecting with these bodily feelings is essential so you don’t let fear run the show.

Listen to its thoughts of insecurity
Fear will rarely pat us on the back and applaud our capabilities! It’s language is one of helplessness and rejection – sometimes as a whining child and sometimes as a bully. Listen to it regardless, because thoughts impact feelings and behaviors. “They’re going to leave me” will either lead to clinging or shutting down – but surely not to opening up with genuine love and kindness.

Enter its world with empathy
There are universal fears we’re born with. And then there are the experiential fears that grow through our early experiences. When we were little and helpless, these fears were very real. Today though, they are likely untrue and surely unhelpful, but just as real in our adult minds.

Offer it the kindness it seeks
This is the game changing dialogue. Pushing aside our fears, or avoiding them, simply makes them grow and become us. Talking to them as to a fearful child, asking them what they really need, and providing them with a warm embrace is often enough to calm them down and put us back in the driver’s seat.

So here’s the challenge:
The next time you feel fear in your body or your mind, ask yourself “What am I avoiding right now?” Connect to the voice of low self-worth that doesn’t believe in its competence or lovability, and give it the assurance that it’s safe. That it’s competent. That it’s loved. That it’s enough. That you’re enough.

And then armed with this inner strength, go out and do the very thing you would do if the fear were no longer running the show.

Do write your comments below and let me know how it went. I’d love to hear from you!

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

FLINT

One story from my childhood crosses mind every year on Father’s Day.

When I was a kid, my dad pastored in a low income neighborhood in city of Flint, Michigan. Flint has always been a rough town, but during the eighties when my family lived there, it had the highest murder rate per capita of any city in the country.

If you ever met my father, you would agree that he is by definition, the most “suburban” man alive.

– He buys all of his clothes at JC Penney.
– He wears chinos and golf shirts to relax.
– He wears a suit and tie to work.

This is my father. The style guru of suburban fashion.

When summer rolled around each year, I had no choice on certain days but to go to the office with my dad because my mom also worked full time. My parents always told me never to go off the church property because the neighborhood was very dangerous.

One day I was sitting in the reception area at the church office coloring, and my dad came out of his office wearing a pair of cross trainers, tube socks pulled up to his knees, an awkward pair of khaki shorts, and a tshirt that read, “Don’t mess with Texas,” (his home state).

He was also carrying a basketball.

He said, “Come on, Ryan. Let’s go over to the park and play ball during our lunch break.”

The park my dad was talking about was the kind of park that everyone called a “park” but it really functioned more like an open air drug market.

There were no children in the park. Children didn’t go to this park.

– It was not green.
– It had no working swing sets or jungle gyms.
– It was a barren landscape covered in dead, brown grass littered with beer cans, whiskey bottles, and used drug paraphernalia.

But there was a basketball court.

As my dad and I exited the church and crossed the street, I could see a very intense game of basketball happening at the park. I could hear curse words and shouting.

The guys watching the game from the sidelines were drinking something out of little paper bags, the same kind that my mom would pack my school lunch in. The music coming out of the boom boxes sounded very different from the church music my parents would play on our tape player at home. The lyrics were angry and violent.

As my father and I entered the park, the game stopped and everyone looked in our direction. Two foreign beings had just invaded a forbidden turf. A balding white man with a ten-inch combover, bad shorts, bad shoes, terrible socks, with a basketball in one hand and his child’s hand in the other.

Dad walked right into the middle of the game, stuck out one of his hands, and said to the guy playing point guard, “Hi. My name is A.C. Phipps. I’m one of the pastors at the church across the street. I’m on my lunch break, and I was wondering if you would mind if my son and I played basketball with you?”

A hush fell over the court as an awkward handshake of two very different people took place. After what seemed like years, the guy my dad was speaking to told two of the guys on his team to sit the rest of the game out and my dad and I joined their team on the court.

It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, but dad seemed happy about the whole thing. The guy playing point guard threw me the ball and said, “Here kid, you take the ball out.”

I did.

We played.

I even scored (or rather, everyone let me score).

As we kept playing, the atmosphere of that park shifted. It felt less dark and less foreign.

It was the same feeling I would have when our congregation would sing songs together at church. It was the same feeling I had when my family would sit at the dinner table and we would laugh and tell stories. There was camaraderie. There was shared experience. There was…dare I think it? “Friendship.”

A line was crossed. A barrier was breached, and two people groups that were formerly divided by cultural norms were all of a sudden mixing, playing a game together.

I will never forget this experience long as I live.

DIFFERENT STRIPES

As I’ve aged, my opinions have become very different from that of my father.

We differ politically, theologically, philosophically, and in just about every other area of knowledge that exists for humankind to ruminate over.

This has been the cause of many good dinner table debates over the years during the holidays. Neither of us willing to budge, but my dad never seeming upset- that same happy look on his face. Two people of different stripes exchanging ideas in the spirit of friendship.

My dad has always had that gift. He can walk up to anybody, even someone who disagrees with him or thinks he’s strange for approaching them, and show them that love is bigger than our differences.

I struggle to believe the things my dad believes about God at times.

I can never get on the same page with him politically.

But the way I’ve watched him cross lines and break cultural norms over the years for the sake of building bridges across divides has left an indelible mark on me.

To this day, nothing makes me ache more inside than to see people dividing, separating, and afraid of one another. And I have my dad to thank for that.

In some strange way, though we believe very different things, there’s something about my dad’s beliefs that go far beyond the boundaries of doctrine and continue forward into a kind of love that’s difficult to put into words. But the results of that love are easy to see. It looks like friendship, unity, and above all, people mattering more than principles.

So to the Reverend A.C. Phipps: Texan native, religious and political conservative, thank you for your example. I am forever touched by your faith, courage, and relentless pursuit to show people that love is the very best path to becoming more fully human.

Happy Father’s Day, dad.

P.S. – I look forward to our next dinner table debate.
P.P.S. – And I’m going to win.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

One day a few years ago, I stopped by my folks’ folk’s house to say hi and my Mom told me with tears in her eyes that my Dad had prostate cancer. I didn’t believe this could happen because he was so diligent with checking his PSA numbers–to the point he drove his doctors crazy. But in fact it was aggressive. Shit. I felt everything sink inside me because my Dad was my rock, my unwavering supporter. He was the person I could always depend on through thick and thin, through the arguments (and there were many) and the celebrations. He was consistently there for me like none other. But calmingly he said, “This is not a death sentence. We’ll do whatever it takes and we’ll get through this.”

My Dad’s name is Solomon Matthew Carrington, III–a powerful, biblical name befitting a powerful, loving and musical man. With a robust name like that, there is no wonder that he is strong, uncompromising, unafraid, forceful, and efficiently able to withstand or overcome adverse conditions. His name has deep meaning and a positive legacy behind it. I watched my Dad get through his health crisis, just as I’ve watched him get through other adversities in life, with pride and dignity, and with a certain sense of “coolness” and style. I’ve always admired him and he’s always made me feel that there was nothing I couldn’t accomplish. So when I chose to play drums, without any other female role models, not once did he flinch, nor did I doubt that I could succeed at this profession. He was always right there, by my side.

“My father once told me that no one would ever love me as much as him–and I believe him. “

On a winter night in February 1965 my grandfather, Solomon Matthew Carrington Jr., stepped off the stage after playing drums with Gene Ammons, walked to the table where my parents were sitting and passed away–just like that. I was born six months later with “the drums” in my blood and I’ve always felt the spirit of my grandfather with me. My Dad often nostalgically set up his Dad’s drum set, playing them for me or anyone else who would listen. I watched this until one day at seven years old I asked to play them too. He was shocked and elated that I could immediately keep a beat. This helped him to be less disappointed that I was not born the male son that he always wanted. Nonetheless, he took me under his wing, became my teacher and I became his buddy–going to the jazz clubs with him weekly, playing at jam sessions and eventually doing “gigs” together. Even as a pre- adolescent little girl, I realized this was the life. He pushed through doors that should never have been opened, which helped me see that I could not only dream, but could realize dreams that some would consider unrealistic. Thanks to him, I was fearless and did not know any better and have pretty much stayed that way. I recognize that my successes are not just for me, but also for my father and my grandfather because I am the beneficiary of their labor and the inheritor of their talents.

Often he drove five women to these clubs, as there were five women living in the house with him–his mother, his wife, his sister, his aunt and his daughter–a lot of estrogen, daily. Most men would have wanted to be out hanging with their “boys.” But my Dad’s sacrifices and consistent dedication to furthering my success as a young jazz prodigy was evident. Many people would not have gone so many extra miles. Experiencing this has helped me to be a better mother to a ten year old boy that has to deal with having a Mommy that goes “on the road” as often as I do. And because I had such a great example, I clearly understand why difficult sacrifices are needed in parenting.

My Dad remains one of the funniest guys I know. All of my friends want to call or visit him so they can “get their laugh on.” He has “seen it all” and “done it all,” and is able to most colorfully convey his stories with a little exaggeration of course. Being from the north, he often brags about his experience in college “down south” in the 1950s. He insists there was a little all Black town in Georgia that was called Thatsyourass, Georgia because when the train passed through this town it would not fully stop and if you wanted to get off there it would only slow down allowing you to jump off onto bags of hay. And if you missed the hay, well….That’s Your Ass! He’s one of those people that has a nickname for everyone. One friend that has a mole on his nose, Dad affectionately calls “Nipple Nose” and he called me Baby Pee for years, because I had to run in the house after school every day to go to the bathroom. He promised to have a child’s pee pot at the front door. And before that he called me Duckie, short for Duck Farmer.

But one of the biggest testaments to my Dad is that many of my girlfriends and musical colleagues, some of whom did not have fathers, look to my Dad as their surrogate father. They stay in touch with him, call him frequently for advice, or just to see how he is doing. He’s made the time and has had the patience to share his wisdom and compassion with many others. This also makes me very proud of him.

Being an only child, my parents have been the most consistent force in my life and it’s hard not to look at my own mortality as they get older. I don’t want that feeling again, when I found out he had prostate cancer. But rather than look to the future, I choose to be in the present and cherish my time with them, honoring them in any way that I can. So today in celebration of Father’s Day, I want to thank my Dad for all that he has done to make my life what it is. Thus far, we have had a beautiful, imperfect journey together, with more to come. Once he told me that no one would ever love me as much as him–and I believe him.

Happy Father’s Day to all Dads that have put their children first.

Terri Lyne Carrington is a three-time GRAMMY Award-winning recording artist, producer and educator.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.