Recover the wonder.

Hi, y'all. I was just poking around my blog stats and noticed I hadn't written anything in awhile. Not because I haven't had ideas or time, but if you create at all, you know sometimes things have to speak to you before you get around to them. (Good thing I don't do this for a living or I'd starve.)

Yesterday I went out grocery shopping alone, since Mister was out of town on family business. I was trolling around the Aldi, scouting for hot deals on fancy cheese, and I heard a little girl singing. Loudly. My first reaction was GAAAAAAAHHHH NOISE, but then I realized the kid had a pretty nice voice for a 6 year-old. She was making up an alphabet song and only got as far as alligators and bears, but she kept singing.

While she was waiting for her mom to check out, the girl amused herself playing with empty boxes, arranging and rearranging them into different configurations, singing and chattering the whole time. Then she found a dime, and was pretty much over the moon. It was all a great wonderment for her.

And I thought, at what point do we lose that? When do we stop singing in public like we don't give a damn? When do we quash that childlike sense of wonder? When do we stop giving people random hugs and telling them we love them, just because we can? Not only when, but WHY?

Now, me, I do still sing in public. If there's some good jams on at the Publix, I'll sing while I'm shopping. I've also been known to dance around in the aisles. I mean, why should grocery shopping be a chore? Heck, more than once, Mister and I have sung in harmony to whatever song was playing on the sound system. We just flat out don't care. Ain't no law against actin a fool at the grocery. (The international grocery is especially fun when they play bellydance music.)

I've noticed, though, that when we perform for real, it can be a challenge getting people to participate. They especially don't want to dance, even though that's what a lot of that music is for. The adults will sit there and listen, but it's the kids who dance. Even at events where we have scheduled dances, it's a challenge to get the grown-ups on the bandwagon. Kids? No problem. They're all over it.

People. Y U NO DANCE? What is it you're afraid of? I promise you nobody cares if you look like a gawky ostrich, because they're too worried about themselves. If you feel like dancing, then GET UP AND DO IT. You're probably way better at it than you think you are anyway.

If you spend any time around kids, you know how affectionate they are. They'll just come right up to you and crawl in your lap and say "I love you" and they don't even have to be your own kids. Now, I'm not advocating that adults necessarily crawl into each other's laps (unless you're in a situation where that's appropriate - winkwinknudgenudge), but why do we have to be so reserved about letting someone know we care about them? Moreover, why are some of us scared to accept that someone cares about us?

I have an open heart as big as the universe. It's probably caused me more grief and trouble than my big mouth ever did. But I'm not going to waste it, and I'm not going to stop caring. (I tried that once. I was miserable.) I try to find the wonderments amid the chaos and drudgery of everyday life. And I won't lie - sometimes that's almost impossible. It seems like an extra challenge for the chronically depressed, especially when you think the universe is conspiring to hold you back. But even in the dark times, something amazing and wonderful will poke its little head out of the dirt. The trick is being mindful enough to notice.

So, little girl at the grocery, I hope you will always sing when you feel like it, and create things out of boxes and other seemingly useless items, and get excited when you find a dime. We cranky old adults need those wonderments. Heck, if we marveled more at the little things, or sang more, or danced more, maybe we wouldn't be so cranky.

Till next time - see if you can't recover your sense of wonder.

Making peace with the unpeaceful.

Every year about this time, we get to read all about which celebrities gave the graduation address at which school, blahblahblah, etc. etc. etc. Usually it's the same tired platitudes about how higher education gives you such a big advantage in the workplace, you're the future of America, yaddayaddayadda, but every once in awhile, someone cuts to the heart of the matter and delivers an undeniable truth, such as Joss Whedon in his address to the graduates of Wesleyan University: "Peace comes from the acceptance of the part of you that can never be at peace. It will always be in conflict. If you accept that, everything gets a lot better."

Normally I don't bother reading these speeches because of the aforementioned tired platitudes, but being a huge fan of Firefly, I felt compelled to see what Whedon had to say to these newly-minted graduates. The idea of being at peace with the unpeaceful isn't foreign to me at all, being a yoga practitioner (albeit an admittedly lazy one) and a reader of Buddhist teachings, but seeing it in Whedon's speech sorta hit me upside the head with a shovel. Yeah. Make peace with the part of you that can never be at peace.

Which part, though? I seem to have several. There's always something somewhere I'm just not at peace with, because I tend to want everything to be just so, and of course it never is. And if I do manage to make peace with it, it's only temporary. But I guess that's why they call it "practice." As a friend's young daughter recently pointed out, practice doesn't make perfect, but it does make progress. Logically I know that's true; however, I'm not generally long on patience and I'm constantly wanting the wheels of progress to turn just a little faster, thankyouverymuch. Add that to my list of unpeaceful things to make peace with.

I suppose there is some freedom in accepting that there will always be conflict somewhere, because even when one problem gets solved, at least one more seems to take its place, forever and ever, amen. Some days it seems like an endless parade. And other days . . . well, other days there's a glimmer of hope, a sliver of peace, which makes the practice all worthwhile and reminds you why you make the effort in the first place.

Till next time ---- make peace with the unpeaceful, and aim to misbehave. 

(You can read more about Whedon's speech here.)

Happy Birthday, Murray.

Yesterday was my friend Murray's birthday. I'm not exactly how old he would have been - 60-something, I guess - if cancer had not taken his life just before Thanksgiving 2011.

I first encountered Murray on a history-based Internet message board when we started a discussion about the history of the violin chin rest. Conclusion: even though it had been developed in the 1830s, it didn't become common until after the Civil War, so not using one would be more accurate in historical settings. We had many subsequent discussions about historical music, reenacting, and so on. Finally he made it to Nashville from Arkansas, and we actually got to play together at a small event in Franklin.

Murray was a sweet, gentle man, and he loved music and history. He was thrilled to land a couple of historical music gigs playing with a band out of west Tennessee and an entertainment troupe from Kentucky/Ohio. Like me, he also struggled with depression, and we talked about that as well from time to time. When the Great Flood of 2010 happened, he called to make sure we were all right.

Not too long after that, he was diagnosed with cancer. I want to say it was his kidneys, but I honestly don't remember. What I do remember is the grace and peace with which he faced this trial. Murray was a man of faith, which he shared often in his own gentle way. He was thoughtful and contemplative in his struggle. He never asked "why me?"

Murray knew his time was limited, but none of us realized it would be so short. Isn't that always the way?

So, happy birthday, Murray. I still think of you all the time and wish I could tell you about my latest musical adventures. I think you would approve.

Till next time --- hug a friend.

Randomness.

You know how sometimes your brain gets all cluttered up, and things just streak through it seemingly at will, with no logical pattern? Yeah. That's what this is. My brain is full. I need to empty it a little.

1. Student Accounts is the office across the hall with STUDENT ACCOUNTS ON THE DOOR.

2. If you love Jesus, seek justice instead of asking people to "repost this if you love Jesus" on Facebook. How about, instead of reposting, you show compassion to someone in need? How about THAT?

3. Speaking of Facebook, is it too much trouble to confirm some of the crap you post? I get so tired of seeing the same nonsense overandoverandover again even after it's been debunked. Just STOP IT.

4. Leave Kim Kardashian alone. No, I don't like her either, but picking on a pregnant woman's weight? Not cool, y'all. Not cool.

5. Why can't I just knit and play the fiddle all day?

6. Why don't I have a string boy?

7. Shiny.

8. I need a cupcake.

Till next time ---  be sweet to each other and quit your meanness.

Weighty Matters.

They say a lady doesn't tell her age or her weight. I've already told you how old I am, so you may as well just know: I weigh 155.

One hundred and fifty-five pounds. I've never weighed this much in my life. I got married in a size 4 wedding dress that not only had to be shortened, it also had to be taken up in the bazoom. That was 23 years and about 40 pounds ago, when I wasn't concerned with weight. I vowed I would never be one of those people obsessed with her weight.

Now, 23 years later . . . I wouldn't say I'm obsessed with my weight, but I do think about it. It's hard not to think about it when you pull out last year's summer linen slacks and they don't fit anymore. It's hard not to think about it when you go through your old stuff for the Goodwill and toss out a bunch of S labels because they make you look like an overstuffed sausage, if you can get them on at all. It's hard not to think about when you buy a size L t-shirt and the damn thing is TOO SMALL. Granted, the women's t-shirts now are cut pretty tiny, but still. I'm not LARGE.

Larger than I used to be, yes, like a lot of women my age, but I don't think anyone would say I was LARGE.    However, I have a few size 12s in my closet, and 12 is considered a plus size.

Really? Do any of you who have seen me in person really think I'm a PLUS SIZE? I mean, come ON.

Yes, I have done the diet & exercise thing. The truth is, though, I love to eat and I hate to exercise much. I go for walks, I lift a few weights, I practice a little yoga. Sometimes I dance. I try not to eat too much junk. That's about it. I've held pretty steady at 155 for awhile now, so this may be where I stay. I don't particularly like it, because I don't care for the womanly squishiness 155 pounds has brought me, but it ain't going away overnight. Heck, it may not go away at all, which means I better just get used to the idea.

I'm trying. It's a struggle, when I consider my tiny 21 year-old self, but I'm trying.

I remind myself there's quite a bit of muscle under the squish. I can lift & carry a 52-pound box of copy paper, which always leaves the delivery guys stunned. I can tote a giant bag of dog food on my shoulder. I'm also pretty bendy for an old broad. My last physical therapist called me Gumby. (I thought everybody could bend over at the waist and put their palms on the floor.) And I can still do the splits - not as effortlessly as I once did, but I can still do it. My cholesterol is "beautiful" (doctor's exact words) and my vital organs all still work, so I reckon that's all good. It's going to have to be.

Acceptance is a bitch, but she forces you to be honest. I hate her and I love her at the same time.

Till next time --- accept yourself.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

Well, one of them, anyway. How can it not be a fantastic weekend when you go to see Richard Thompson?

Most of you know that I am absolutely crazy about Richard Thompson. I have to admit, though, I am late to the game. I mean, I always was aware of him - heck, I had a Rolling Stone subscription for most of the 80s - but beyond hearing him on the radio here & there, I didn't pay much attention. And then, one evening, I was driving up to Hendersonville and I heard this piece on Fresh Air: Richard Thompson - Looking Back. By the time the show was over, I was completely gobsmacked. Why did I not know about this before??? What rock had I been living under?

I got out of the car to meet Mister and our friends to set up for an event, and I was babbling like an idiot. "OhmyGAWDyouguys, I was just listening to this Richard Thompson interview, and it's like, HOLY CRAP, he sounds like 4 people playing the guitar! And the songs. SWEET FANCY MOSES, THE SONGS."

Mister said, "Yeah, my old roommate and I used to listen to RT a lot back in the day."

I may or may not have accused him of holding out on me. "We've been married 20 years and YOU NEVER TOLD ME???" He just shrugged. The next week I commenced to buying up RT downloads on iTunes. He came to town just a few weeks after my Great Revelation, but we were too broke and too busy to go that time. We finally did get to see him at the Belcourt in an acoustic solo show, which I wrote about in an earlier blog post. Saying that it was magical doesn't even do it justice. The fact that I'm still talking about it two years later should be a clue.

This time, RT had a band with him: drummer Michael Jerome and bassist Taras Prodaniuk, both incredible musicians themselves. He joked about them being a power trio, but that's definitely what they were. Now, I'm not a guitar player, and I don't have any desire to be one, but I'm always amazed by people who make it look effortless. It's like magic. Logically I know it takes work and practice, but still . . . magic, as far as I'm concerned.

I imagine that when you have as large a body of work as RT does, it's hard to choose what songs to put into a 2 hour show. Of course he did several songs from his new album, Electric (just go buy a copy; you'll thank me later), but there were a few surprises, too. I didn't really expect to hear "Did She Jump or Was She Pushed?" or "Wall of Death," but there they were. And if that wasn't enough of a surprise, the power trio launched into "Hey Joe." Yes, that "Hey Joe." It was nothing short of magnificent. A couple of my favorites were missing, but I was pretty content nonetheless. He ended with "Tear Stained Letter" and had the whole house singing along.

The ultimate in geekery for me, though, was "Sidney Wells," a murder ballad (of course!) in 9/8. I love murder ballads, and I love 9/8, so to get both in the same package is pretty darn exciting. And how often do you hear a slip jig played on a red Fender?

So. Richard Thompson on Saturday night, followed up on Sunday afternoon with an Irish singing class at McNamara's with the lovely and charming Michelle Burke. Yeah. Best. Weekend. Ever.

Till next time --- may your weekends be glorious.

Thoughts on resurrection & rebirth.

Once again it is Easter, when millions of Christians worldwide celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. As a child, this meant little more to me than putting on a frilly dress with white gloves and having a tiny cracker and some grape juice at church. Since then, though, I've come to realize that the resurrection story makes some important points for believers and non-believers alike. To wit:

1. Jesus was willing to die for a cause. Are you? Do you know anyone who is? The world is full of people who talk a big game about a great number of things, but when it comes down to it, talking is all they know how to do. If you want anything to change, you have to do more than talk. You have to take action.You may even have to risk death. Are you up for the challenge?

2. Selling out your friends isn't worth it. Judas was so wracked with guilt over the 30-pieces-of-silver incident that he returned the money and then hanged himself. What sounds like a good idea in the short term may come back to haunt you later, with drastic circumstances. Choose wisely and consider how your choice might affect others.

3. If you want to resurrect something, sometimes you have to let it die first. This was something I heard many years ago from a Baptist minister, but it came back to me later when I read Pema Chodron's book When Things Fall Apart. The minister said that Jesus couldn't bring Lazarus back to life until he was actually dead; Pema Chodron writes that in order to rebuild, sometimes you have to let things fall completely apart. Now, this is hard for us to understand, and even harder to put into action. We want to save things. We want to keep them alive as long as we can. We don't want to let anything die or fall apart because it represents failure. I get that. (Oh, believe me how much I get that.) But an end is an opportunity for a new start, and when you let things fall apart, you're free to put the pieces back together in a new configuration. Consider the phoenix rising from the ashes, or Bill Compton rising from a pile of vampire goo. (Sorry, but I just couldn't resist that one. My True Blood friends will understand.)

Easter comes at a time of year when the earth emerges from its dormancy. Whether you celebrate in a religious manner or not, it's hard to miss the omnipresent reminders of death & rebirth. What can you resurrect in your life?

Till next time --- rise from the ashes.