I now have a second and third tube of wood that make noise. Well, kinda. I've chosen to use two different specifications on them. Tube 1, which actually looks like a flute, is sitting in the bedroom with the rest of my flutes, waiting for me to make a fetish for it. I'm a little hesitant to start that project because I'll be using a new power tool. Anything with moving blades gives me pause.
Tube 2 I have decided follow traditional tuning methods. Right now, all six holes make a different sound. It is VERY sensitive to air pressure. In fact, the top three holes are next to impossible to not overblow. I want to shorten up the length of it before I try tuning it. That will bring it closer to a full traditional design.
Tube 3 is following design specifications from yet another flute creator. The north, or mouthpiece, end of mine is somewhat shorter than his specs, so I'm not sure how that affects the tuning. Here's the bizarre part. The bottom three holes seem to have absolutely zero effect on the sound. The top three holes change the pitch. I don't get it. Yet. Hopefully, when I shorten that one, there will be a change in its behavior as well.
The fourth and fifth tubes are sitting on the bench filled with glue and covered in clamps. The glue I use says it only needs about four hours to cure, but I like to let it sit for at least 24 hours before I touch it again. It'll be nearly 48 hours for these, since my hunny has today and tomorrow off. Better to be inside with her than out in the cold garage. :)
Come Saturday, when she goes back to work, I'll cut down 2 & 3, probably 4 & 5 as well, drill 4 & 5, then try tuning the whole group. The tuning process is time consuming because I am a bit of a perfectionist. I found a nifty app for my gadget that performs as an electronic tuner. Make a noise and it tells you what pitch it is. It, too, is VERY sensitive. How that affects the tuning is that I can see that the frequency of the note I want is less than 5 Hz (cycles per second) off. If I want to tune each hole accurately in relation to the others, I'll spend hours removing very small quantities of wood from the holes. Four flutes, six holes each. That will probably take most of the day.
In the meantime, I have plenty of deerskin with which to make medicine pouches. That process turned out to be relatively painless. I have a fair amount of deer leather thong to make drawstrings for them. I'll bring in my woodburning tools and choose a design or two to put on the leather. I have already tested the technique on the rawhide. I need to do a test on this thinner material.
I also have plenty of beadwork projects to tackle. I need to practice on wrapping "sticks" and putting designs on fabric or leather.
All the craft projects will be pointless if I don't get the web site design completed AND get the business license I'll need. Guess I better find out how much THAT will cost. Then there's shipping to explore. Oh yay fun.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Country Blues
Sounds like a mix of Nashville and New Orleans, right? I almost went that way when I first read it. But then I realized where TMB is and how that could apply. You see, she is an urbanite. Part of her year she spends in Southern California. The other part she spends in Israel, and what she is experiencing is the lack of urbanity. I know, that's probably not a word, but hey, it's my blog.
I told her that I understand. Many years ago, I moved from Los Angeles, where I grew up, to the San Jose area. It was a change of pace. San Jose was a bit slower than LA. Then I moved, with my burgeoning family, to Sacramento. Yet again, a change of pace toward the slower side. After that it was back to LA for a few years. Then off to Georgia, where the pace depended, like California, on how close you were to the major metro. Three and a half years later, off to North Texas, and the Fort Worth area. Many people drawl Fort Worth together with Dallas, thanks to the location of the huge international airport, which sits smack dab in the middle, straddling the county line. Fort Worth is a whole different animal from Dallas. Much like the difference between Los Angeles and Sacramento. North Richland Hills, a little northeast of downtown Fort Worth is a pleasant community, with all the amenities you'd expect in an urban sprawl. It is, however, not dictated by the pace of the major metroplex mentality. I kinda liked it, except for the humidity combined with the heat. My last summer there, we had 46 straight days over 100. The humidity is generally around 60%. So, the next stop was Rhode Island. Specifically, moved into Warwick, VERY near the airport, which is called Providence Airport but is really about 15 miles from Providence, then to North Kingstown. Rhode Island is a state that is just over 1/3 the size of Los Angeles county. (Many of my Angelino friends just made a confused face.) It is also a place of extremes. NK is a pretty town (they're all towns, no cities) that is comfortably paced. Warwick, not so much. Providence I can't stand, never did, never hid that.
So coming to Fresno, city of my birth fifty-some years ago, was something I anticipated. I was only here for the first couple of years of my life. I don't remember any of it. All I know is we lived on Harvey. I looked at the map. Harvey has been broken into chunks now thanks to the 180 freeway. I don't know the street number, so I wouldn't have a chance of finding the old place anyway. But the pace here is a bit slower. Unless you're on West Shaw or North Blackstone on a Saturday. Then it's retail competition hell. You can find that anywhere though. Like Route 2 in Warwick.
So what was TMB asking for? How to cope with mom being a grump. She titled the entry "Time to Snow Some Love". There's apparently a sense of isolation and perhaps lack of "things to do" where she is. So how does one adjust from living in a place like LA/Orange Counties to living in "the country"? Here is how I replied on her blog:
I told her that I understand. Many years ago, I moved from Los Angeles, where I grew up, to the San Jose area. It was a change of pace. San Jose was a bit slower than LA. Then I moved, with my burgeoning family, to Sacramento. Yet again, a change of pace toward the slower side. After that it was back to LA for a few years. Then off to Georgia, where the pace depended, like California, on how close you were to the major metro. Three and a half years later, off to North Texas, and the Fort Worth area. Many people drawl Fort Worth together with Dallas, thanks to the location of the huge international airport, which sits smack dab in the middle, straddling the county line. Fort Worth is a whole different animal from Dallas. Much like the difference between Los Angeles and Sacramento. North Richland Hills, a little northeast of downtown Fort Worth is a pleasant community, with all the amenities you'd expect in an urban sprawl. It is, however, not dictated by the pace of the major metroplex mentality. I kinda liked it, except for the humidity combined with the heat. My last summer there, we had 46 straight days over 100. The humidity is generally around 60%. So, the next stop was Rhode Island. Specifically, moved into Warwick, VERY near the airport, which is called Providence Airport but is really about 15 miles from Providence, then to North Kingstown. Rhode Island is a state that is just over 1/3 the size of Los Angeles county. (Many of my Angelino friends just made a confused face.) It is also a place of extremes. NK is a pretty town (they're all towns, no cities) that is comfortably paced. Warwick, not so much. Providence I can't stand, never did, never hid that.
So coming to Fresno, city of my birth fifty-some years ago, was something I anticipated. I was only here for the first couple of years of my life. I don't remember any of it. All I know is we lived on Harvey. I looked at the map. Harvey has been broken into chunks now thanks to the 180 freeway. I don't know the street number, so I wouldn't have a chance of finding the old place anyway. But the pace here is a bit slower. Unless you're on West Shaw or North Blackstone on a Saturday. Then it's retail competition hell. You can find that anywhere though. Like Route 2 in Warwick.
So what was TMB asking for? How to cope with mom being a grump. She titled the entry "Time to Snow Some Love". There's apparently a sense of isolation and perhaps lack of "things to do" where she is. So how does one adjust from living in a place like LA/Orange Counties to living in "the country"? Here is how I replied on her blog:
Tech-Free
Another blogist of my acquaintance, PB, has asked if it's possible for us in the Facebook world to go tech-free for one day a month. She doesn't use the reference of "going green", but rather as a day to simply be and experience. Get simpler and go back to a time when people talked to each other in the face. Go for a walk, for crying out loud. Ok, some parts of the country right now that may not be a pleasant thought. Guess what, there are other things you can do!
One of the comments she got back went right to that "other things" side. With work schedules, travel schedules, family, children and all the demands put on us, it may not be that simple. Who says you can't plan for something like that though?!? One of the things I've been saying for some time now is that we move too fast. I loved the traffic jams in Rhode Island. It gave me a chance to look at the side of the road and see the wildflowers growing there. I had the opportunity to see wild turkeys roaming along the highway. You don't get to see that stuff when you're flying low at 70mph in the 55 zone. Stop and smell the roses has never been more important, in my opinion.
The discussions that followed went two ways. She has it posted in two different locations. One thread was very positive, looking for all the ways to tune out the every day world and tune in to the natural world. Given that opportunity, I can tell you one of the things you'll find. YOU are part of that natural world. Go sit in a park for a couple of hours. Hold the hand of your partner. Spread out a blanket, if the weather cooperates, and lie next to each other staring at clouds and birds and trees. Don't talk about work or bills or schedules. Just breathe. Let go of what is expected. Let the unexpected come to you. It will!
The other thread is apparently populated with people who don't understand being unplugged, or are at least severely resistant to not "being in touch." PB suggested turning off the computer and the cell phone, at the very least. Someone asked if that included the television. PB, in her generous nature, said that it's a personal project and each should proceed with what is comfortable. For my part, television is out. Radio is out. CD, iPod, stereo, out. Gas and electric, well that depends on where you live. If you're in New England right now, definitely NOT out! Even the Central Valley of California would be a difficult place to stay without power right now. Now a place like Sydney, Australia, you might get by. However, you might need the air conditioner unless you can spend the day at a beach. :)
One of the ways that I'll be able to enjoy the tech-free day is my flute. It requires no power other than me and can create such a peaceful space in which to be free. If I'm lucky enough to spend this day with my hunny, which I plan to be, I know she'll enjoy the flute as well. Does this tech-free mean no books? I think it should. That's my view because part of the goal here is to focus on relationships. Whether with your mate or your family, get rid of the distractions. Board games, card games, sure! Those are things that can bring you together.
Do I despise technology and what it's done to our society? Yes and no. Technology has been my bread and butter for over 30 years. But I don't think it should be as important as it seems to have become to such a large portion of the population. Can I do without? For a day, yes. Maybe even a week. But the time is coming, I hope, that I will be dependent on it from a financial perspective. An online business is in the works. Why? Because if I manage it right, I'll have tech-free time, too.
Can you go tech-free for a day a month?
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
One of the comments she got back went right to that "other things" side. With work schedules, travel schedules, family, children and all the demands put on us, it may not be that simple. Who says you can't plan for something like that though?!? One of the things I've been saying for some time now is that we move too fast. I loved the traffic jams in Rhode Island. It gave me a chance to look at the side of the road and see the wildflowers growing there. I had the opportunity to see wild turkeys roaming along the highway. You don't get to see that stuff when you're flying low at 70mph in the 55 zone. Stop and smell the roses has never been more important, in my opinion.
The discussions that followed went two ways. She has it posted in two different locations. One thread was very positive, looking for all the ways to tune out the every day world and tune in to the natural world. Given that opportunity, I can tell you one of the things you'll find. YOU are part of that natural world. Go sit in a park for a couple of hours. Hold the hand of your partner. Spread out a blanket, if the weather cooperates, and lie next to each other staring at clouds and birds and trees. Don't talk about work or bills or schedules. Just breathe. Let go of what is expected. Let the unexpected come to you. It will!
The other thread is apparently populated with people who don't understand being unplugged, or are at least severely resistant to not "being in touch." PB suggested turning off the computer and the cell phone, at the very least. Someone asked if that included the television. PB, in her generous nature, said that it's a personal project and each should proceed with what is comfortable. For my part, television is out. Radio is out. CD, iPod, stereo, out. Gas and electric, well that depends on where you live. If you're in New England right now, definitely NOT out! Even the Central Valley of California would be a difficult place to stay without power right now. Now a place like Sydney, Australia, you might get by. However, you might need the air conditioner unless you can spend the day at a beach. :)
One of the ways that I'll be able to enjoy the tech-free day is my flute. It requires no power other than me and can create such a peaceful space in which to be free. If I'm lucky enough to spend this day with my hunny, which I plan to be, I know she'll enjoy the flute as well. Does this tech-free mean no books? I think it should. That's my view because part of the goal here is to focus on relationships. Whether with your mate or your family, get rid of the distractions. Board games, card games, sure! Those are things that can bring you together.
Do I despise technology and what it's done to our society? Yes and no. Technology has been my bread and butter for over 30 years. But I don't think it should be as important as it seems to have become to such a large portion of the population. Can I do without? For a day, yes. Maybe even a week. But the time is coming, I hope, that I will be dependent on it from a financial perspective. An online business is in the works. Why? Because if I manage it right, I'll have tech-free time, too.
Can you go tech-free for a day a month?
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
The Image of You
Most recent of the TMB thought nudgers, is a piece about the differences in perception. (Stay with me, it's not that bad.) The differences I'm talking about are the ones between the person we see in the mirror and the one "society" says we should be. This one always get me going. That's easily explained because I'm not on the list of "attractive and desirable" people. Ok, to some I am, but that's different.
Once again, she starts with a quote, one that works best if reproduced the way she published it:
The quote is from Rumi, undoubtedly one of the most romantic writers in history. No matter who it comes from, think about what it conveys. The quote runs down the side of the page next to a picture of a belly dancer. First, you have the image of the belly dancer in your head. Stop. Right there. How many belly dancers, I mean real belly dancers, have you seen that are stick figure women? NOT A ONE! They can't be! There is a great deal of muscle required to perform as they do. On top of that, they know that a woman is supposed to have curves. That's part of the culture from which they come. Then you have the tease and the reveal. If that doesn't get you at least a little bit tingly, check to make sure you still have a pulse.
She goes on to talk about how growth, age, and the rigors of womanhood change the shape of some of the parts. Obviously, I can't address those issues, other than as an observer. Tight pre-teen abs soften to allure giving way to the nurturing environment of motherhood. Some women refer to what remains as "baby belly." Some don't use the reference and just say they're fat. You know what? You're not fat. Just because the supermodel can return to her pre-pregnancy size and shape doesn't mean she should. It's not just the belly either. The hips undergo, what to my eyes is, a radical change. Your bones actually spread and widen to make room for that squirming critter crawling around your insides, and then to push it out! DAMN! Oh by the way, those hips you now have look pretty hot to a large number of men.
So now you look in the mirror, having just stepped out of the shower, and you make that face and that noise. The label? Disgust. Well, shame on you!!! You now have a body that has proven itself capable of sustaining and continuing life. Coded into the male is the primal urge to seek out such bodies. Once upon a time ago, males looked for females that could procreate. Those instincts still exist. There was a study conducted a few years ago that proved it. Shown silhouettes of various shapes and sizes of women, men overwhelmingly said those with wider hips and larger breasts were the most attractive! Now, I'm not referring to the gargantuan breasts of the surgical design, of course. Personally, I don't find fake boobies attractive. Ladies, if you lie on your back and your boobies are pointing at the ceiling, I want nothing to do with them. If they slide off your chest toward the side, I'm grinning! Oh and that sag you all hate so much. Think about this: Your man walks up behind you, slides his hands around your sides, under those sagging bits, and hefts them. Do you honestly think we don't enjoy that?!?
So where is this going? It goes to the adjustment in attitude that TMB has undergone over the years, as have some of my other friends. KS is one of those that I refer to as an Earth Mother. You know the ones. More round than straight. Not rolls upon rolls, but soft. EG is another. I'm very fortunate to know such beauties. My hunny has her areas of soft, too. Yep, part of why I love her. All four of these women will acknowledge that they are not supermodel material. But each, in her own way, is working or has worked through to a point of self-acceptance. Whenever I hear or read such an account, I am overjoyed! Even better is to see the smile on such a woman when she is loved and appreciated for who she is.
So guys, find that soft woman and appreciate her! Tell her she's beautiful and desirable. Tell her to put away that diet soda and drink some milk! As long as she is healthy, and not endangering her health with excess body material, she's gorgeous. If she happens to be a mother, then she's that much more beautiful.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
Once again, she starts with a quote, one that works best if reproduced the way she published it:
Most poets are
like a belly
dancer
who never
reveals anything
below her waist
I won't tease
you like that
for I love when
your eyes get
e
x
c
i
t
e
d.
The quote is from Rumi, undoubtedly one of the most romantic writers in history. No matter who it comes from, think about what it conveys. The quote runs down the side of the page next to a picture of a belly dancer. First, you have the image of the belly dancer in your head. Stop. Right there. How many belly dancers, I mean real belly dancers, have you seen that are stick figure women? NOT A ONE! They can't be! There is a great deal of muscle required to perform as they do. On top of that, they know that a woman is supposed to have curves. That's part of the culture from which they come. Then you have the tease and the reveal. If that doesn't get you at least a little bit tingly, check to make sure you still have a pulse.
She goes on to talk about how growth, age, and the rigors of womanhood change the shape of some of the parts. Obviously, I can't address those issues, other than as an observer. Tight pre-teen abs soften to allure giving way to the nurturing environment of motherhood. Some women refer to what remains as "baby belly." Some don't use the reference and just say they're fat. You know what? You're not fat. Just because the supermodel can return to her pre-pregnancy size and shape doesn't mean she should. It's not just the belly either. The hips undergo, what to my eyes is, a radical change. Your bones actually spread and widen to make room for that squirming critter crawling around your insides, and then to push it out! DAMN! Oh by the way, those hips you now have look pretty hot to a large number of men.
So now you look in the mirror, having just stepped out of the shower, and you make that face and that noise. The label? Disgust. Well, shame on you!!! You now have a body that has proven itself capable of sustaining and continuing life. Coded into the male is the primal urge to seek out such bodies. Once upon a time ago, males looked for females that could procreate. Those instincts still exist. There was a study conducted a few years ago that proved it. Shown silhouettes of various shapes and sizes of women, men overwhelmingly said those with wider hips and larger breasts were the most attractive! Now, I'm not referring to the gargantuan breasts of the surgical design, of course. Personally, I don't find fake boobies attractive. Ladies, if you lie on your back and your boobies are pointing at the ceiling, I want nothing to do with them. If they slide off your chest toward the side, I'm grinning! Oh and that sag you all hate so much. Think about this: Your man walks up behind you, slides his hands around your sides, under those sagging bits, and hefts them. Do you honestly think we don't enjoy that?!?
So where is this going? It goes to the adjustment in attitude that TMB has undergone over the years, as have some of my other friends. KS is one of those that I refer to as an Earth Mother. You know the ones. More round than straight. Not rolls upon rolls, but soft. EG is another. I'm very fortunate to know such beauties. My hunny has her areas of soft, too. Yep, part of why I love her. All four of these women will acknowledge that they are not supermodel material. But each, in her own way, is working or has worked through to a point of self-acceptance. Whenever I hear or read such an account, I am overjoyed! Even better is to see the smile on such a woman when she is loved and appreciated for who she is.
So guys, find that soft woman and appreciate her! Tell her she's beautiful and desirable. Tell her to put away that diet soda and drink some milk! As long as she is healthy, and not endangering her health with excess body material, she's gorgeous. If she happens to be a mother, then she's that much more beautiful.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
Inner Light
One of my Facebook friends is a prolific writer. Her work is published on the internet in several blogs. She regularly links to her blogs on Facebook. Talk about taking full advantage of the technology! My hat's off to you, TMB! Like a lot of people, I have Facebook friends about whom I know very little. Some I have taken the time to learn a bit about. Some people are friends from the real world, as far back as elementary school. From school to work and in between, it's the best way for a self-employment hermit to stay in touch. Now, TMB is one of those contacts that I happened to "find" on Facebook. I honestly don't remember how, but I think I saw a link to her blog on another page.
Since becoming a friend of her primary blog personality, she invited me to be her friend on her personal page as well. We've exchanged a few messages, both business and personal, and I can honestly say she is a person I would very much like to meet. She apparently splits her time between Southern California and Israel. As a result, she missed out on the torrential rains of December 2010. One of the best things about her is her uncanny ability to send my mind into overdrive. In fact, three of the four postings for today are because of her.
So, on to this Inner Light question. I won't cross link to her posts without her permission. I haven't asked yet, but I will. Or you can find me on Facebook and get to them from there. I pretty generally share her posts. Recently, she asked, "I want to know how YOU are going to let your inner light shine in 2011?" She had prefaced the question with this quote:
As you can imagine, a few people chimed in with responses. It's a tough question! How many of us today even think about "spreading light?" We live in a society that is so inundated with darkness that it's difficult to see ourselves as being a source of light. Yet, according to your own belief system, if you have one, you are a source of light. If you have difficulty being the source of light, try being the mirror. At the very least, think about it.
Being the source of light is a pretty easy thing to do. The challenge is remembering it. My philosophy is a simple one. Love really is the answer. If I can keep that in mind, many of my challenges render themselves solved pretty quickly. The Christian version is "love everyone." It's a concept that is simple on the surface, but immensely challenging to implement. Bring the thought to the front of your thinking and it becomes easier. The Indigenous version is "respect all things." Equally simple, equally challenging. Respect / Love for everyone / everything is how you can be a source of light. Live your life following a simple philosophy and it will show.
"What if I just can't do it?!?" It's tough and it takes work. There are times when it's just too much to ask. Keep trying. An alternative is to be the mirror. This also takes work. In order to be the mirror, you have to be able to see and recognize the light. Here's a simple example. You see someone walking down the street pick up a candy wrapper and put it either in their pocket or in a trash can. Instead of thinking, "Weirdo," think "I can do that, too." It's a simple action, really. But it also shows respect for our environment. Like I said, that's a simple example, but I think it illustrates how easily you can be the mirror.
Here's a real challenge. Be both. Be the light that sets the example for others to follow and be the mirror that reflects, and by reflecting expands, the examples of others.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
Since becoming a friend of her primary blog personality, she invited me to be her friend on her personal page as well. We've exchanged a few messages, both business and personal, and I can honestly say she is a person I would very much like to meet. She apparently splits her time between Southern California and Israel. As a result, she missed out on the torrential rains of December 2010. One of the best things about her is her uncanny ability to send my mind into overdrive. In fact, three of the four postings for today are because of her.
So, on to this Inner Light question. I won't cross link to her posts without her permission. I haven't asked yet, but I will. Or you can find me on Facebook and get to them from there. I pretty generally share her posts. Recently, she asked, "I want to know how YOU are going to let your inner light shine in 2011?" She had prefaced the question with this quote:
"There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it." - Edith Wharton
As you can imagine, a few people chimed in with responses. It's a tough question! How many of us today even think about "spreading light?" We live in a society that is so inundated with darkness that it's difficult to see ourselves as being a source of light. Yet, according to your own belief system, if you have one, you are a source of light. If you have difficulty being the source of light, try being the mirror. At the very least, think about it.
Being the source of light is a pretty easy thing to do. The challenge is remembering it. My philosophy is a simple one. Love really is the answer. If I can keep that in mind, many of my challenges render themselves solved pretty quickly. The Christian version is "love everyone." It's a concept that is simple on the surface, but immensely challenging to implement. Bring the thought to the front of your thinking and it becomes easier. The Indigenous version is "respect all things." Equally simple, equally challenging. Respect / Love for everyone / everything is how you can be a source of light. Live your life following a simple philosophy and it will show.
"What if I just can't do it?!?" It's tough and it takes work. There are times when it's just too much to ask. Keep trying. An alternative is to be the mirror. This also takes work. In order to be the mirror, you have to be able to see and recognize the light. Here's a simple example. You see someone walking down the street pick up a candy wrapper and put it either in their pocket or in a trash can. Instead of thinking, "Weirdo," think "I can do that, too." It's a simple action, really. But it also shows respect for our environment. Like I said, that's a simple example, but I think it illustrates how easily you can be the mirror.
Here's a real challenge. Be both. Be the light that sets the example for others to follow and be the mirror that reflects, and by reflecting expands, the examples of others.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.
Multi-Post Intro
Light Image Tech-Free Country Blues
That should stir a few brain cells! Those are actually four different topics some of my friends from the blogiverse have opened up in the past couple of days. As usual, they made me think. Then I had to type. Whenever a piece moves me, I do my best to respond. Authors like hearing from readers.
So what are these topics and why am I writing? I'm writing because I feel like it. It's a good day to stay inside and warm. Writing is a good way to do that.
Light (Light blog)
Talking about inner light here, folks. Do you have one? Have you found it? How are you going to share it?
Image (Image blog)
Not photographs. Not status. Self. What do you see in the mirror?
Tech-Free (Tech-Free blog)
This is one that has caused quite a stir. I'll explain and give you my take.
Country Blues (Country Blues blog)
I loved this one. I can relate. It's not about music.
On to the writing.
That should stir a few brain cells! Those are actually four different topics some of my friends from the blogiverse have opened up in the past couple of days. As usual, they made me think. Then I had to type. Whenever a piece moves me, I do my best to respond. Authors like hearing from readers.
So what are these topics and why am I writing? I'm writing because I feel like it. It's a good day to stay inside and warm. Writing is a good way to do that.
Light (Light blog)
Talking about inner light here, folks. Do you have one? Have you found it? How are you going to share it?
Image (Image blog)
Not photographs. Not status. Self. What do you see in the mirror?
Tech-Free (Tech-Free blog)
This is one that has caused quite a stir. I'll explain and give you my take.
Country Blues (Country Blues blog)
I loved this one. I can relate. It's not about music.
On to the writing.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Holidays and Missing Family
An acquaintance on Facebook, whom I admire for his dedication, is searching for his family and roots. He's encountered a road block that is all too common. In so many parts of the country, the document repository of the history of a town no longer exists. A great many of them were consumed by fire many moons ago. It's a sad thing really. So much of who we are can be found in where we come from.
I know this situation well. I have the same issues for my children. Some records of their maternal family history are lost to the smoke rising on the wind. On a positive note, those records go back at least a couple of generations, so they can get an idea of the last hundred years or so. Still, it would be nice to see where their tree branches in the history of this nation.
As for myself, I can only trace half my tree. My maternal tree I know has roots that go back to the founding of Washington, IL. I even got to visit there a few years ago. Nice little town, with a town square and our family name still appearing on some of the businesses. That's my grandfather's branch. My grandmother's branch is quite a bit more hazy, but I haven't done any formal research down that road. Maybe one day I will.
Sadly, I guess, that's all I have. I know I must have a paternal branch to my tree, because I doubt seriously my biological mother was an immaculate conception. More likely, I was the product of the uniform of the day. Ok, maybe the week. I don't know. I can't know. My biological mother seems have to have fallen off the planet. Her parents (my grandparents and the people I knew as mom and dad growing up) crossed over many moons past. I can't even ask her if she knows who my sperm donor was. So I am left with a family tree that leans heavily to one side. Must be pretty flexible because it seems to keep standing.
The prompt for this entry? The upcoming holiday. My oldest daughter and granddaughter are somewhere in the New York area and I can only hope they get to be together. They weren't for Thanksgiving. My middle daughter and her husband will be leaving Fresno to make what sounds like several stops in Southern California. My youngest and her husband are in SoCal and will probably be making appearances at both family sites. My oldest stepdaughter, her husband and their two children are two hours south of here and, well, I have no idea. My youngest stepdaughter is in Rhode Island. Because her "fiance" is still married, he'll probably be spending the day with his family, meaning she'll likely be alone, as she was for Thanksgiving. My stepson, the youngest of the bunch, will be two hours south. In fact, he'll leave this Sunday and spend three weeks down there. Gotta love a school system that needs a three week winter break.
My hunny is working the 24th and the 26th. It will be me and her and the ducks outside to celebrate. This will be our first year "alone". Should be interesting.
I know this situation well. I have the same issues for my children. Some records of their maternal family history are lost to the smoke rising on the wind. On a positive note, those records go back at least a couple of generations, so they can get an idea of the last hundred years or so. Still, it would be nice to see where their tree branches in the history of this nation.
As for myself, I can only trace half my tree. My maternal tree I know has roots that go back to the founding of Washington, IL. I even got to visit there a few years ago. Nice little town, with a town square and our family name still appearing on some of the businesses. That's my grandfather's branch. My grandmother's branch is quite a bit more hazy, but I haven't done any formal research down that road. Maybe one day I will.
Sadly, I guess, that's all I have. I know I must have a paternal branch to my tree, because I doubt seriously my biological mother was an immaculate conception. More likely, I was the product of the uniform of the day. Ok, maybe the week. I don't know. I can't know. My biological mother seems have to have fallen off the planet. Her parents (my grandparents and the people I knew as mom and dad growing up) crossed over many moons past. I can't even ask her if she knows who my sperm donor was. So I am left with a family tree that leans heavily to one side. Must be pretty flexible because it seems to keep standing.
The prompt for this entry? The upcoming holiday. My oldest daughter and granddaughter are somewhere in the New York area and I can only hope they get to be together. They weren't for Thanksgiving. My middle daughter and her husband will be leaving Fresno to make what sounds like several stops in Southern California. My youngest and her husband are in SoCal and will probably be making appearances at both family sites. My oldest stepdaughter, her husband and their two children are two hours south of here and, well, I have no idea. My youngest stepdaughter is in Rhode Island. Because her "fiance" is still married, he'll probably be spending the day with his family, meaning she'll likely be alone, as she was for Thanksgiving. My stepson, the youngest of the bunch, will be two hours south. In fact, he'll leave this Sunday and spend three weeks down there. Gotta love a school system that needs a three week winter break.
My hunny is working the 24th and the 26th. It will be me and her and the ducks outside to celebrate. This will be our first year "alone". Should be interesting.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Family - or - Warm Baggage
Just the title creates so many different feelings. Anybody who sees a blog with the title "Family" instantly considers their own and all the history and feelings that come along. Some folks call that baggage. Some folks call it warmth. I'm sure some folks are somewhere in the middle, carrying a mixed blessing of baggage and warmth. Maybe it's warm baggage.
A very dear friend wrote in her blog of a visit to family she was about to endure. Luckily, the event was more pleasant, or at least less painful, than expected. Conversing via blog on the topic this morning inspired me to create this entry. Warm Baggage. I'll think I'll go up and change the title to include that. Oh yeah, that looks provocative. Maybe even evocative. Therein lies part of my purpose. Evoke thoughts and perhaps emotions in my readers.
I love my family. How many people do you hear say that and follow it almost immediately with "but"? More to the point, I think, do you know anybody that DOESN'T follow it? I don't. Everybody has some reason why some part of the family is nuts, psychotic, criminal, criminally insane, twisted, drugged, or otherwise abnormal. Statistically speaking, unless you're an only child from a family tree of only children, the odds are pretty good that there's a nutjob in the branches. Of course, nutjob is relative, no pun intended. One person can be seen as a nutjob to one and charming to another. We should all realize this. It helps us to tolerate our nutjobs.
But what about those that aren't merely "a little off"? What about those who are mean, belligerent, downright nasty? Do their friends see them as charming? Or do they only hang around with like-minded people? If there are people who see our nasties as charming, then we have to look to the branches and determine if we're the only one who thinks they're nasties. If we're not alone, then we can guess that either our nasties don't like family or they wear two faces. We love them anyway.
My family? Scattered. No, not scatter-brained. Just scattered. Our history spans coast to coast, in one tree, since about 1720. As a result, I have relatives all over the place. Even within only the last couple of generations, the only ones I know, we're spread so far I can't even track them down. I have cousins from Alaska to Florida, Montana to Pennsylvania. As far as I know. My own siblings range from Southern California to Washington to Wisconsin and one that's only Creator knows where. Even my own offspring, and those of my soulmate, are spread coast to coast. I have daughters in New York, Fresno and Los Angeles. Her kids are in Bakersfield, Rhode Island and Fresno. Part of that is what happens when they get old enough to leave the nest. Of course they go off and make a life for themselves. Of course they start new independent lives.
In this age of instant messaging, text messaging, voice mail, email, social networking, you'd think families could stay closer regardless of the miles. My mom stayed in touch with her brothers better using snail mail than I can with my siblings and offspring. Yes, that's sad. Sometimes worse than sad. I have a granddaughter and two stepgrandchildren, from whom I rarely hear. Miles apparently do that. As do past hurts. Yes, there are reasons why I don't hear from my grandkids. Some valid, some considerably less so.
And now, as my friend has also said, my closer family is the group of people I've met through various social networks. There are several whom I love dearly. There are a few that are more significant than most of my blood family. How can this be? How do "people" who only exist as pixels on a computer screen become more "real" than those who share DNA and bonds of lineage and with whom we share common memories? Pretty simple actually. Communication. On a nearly daily basis, I talk to them, they talk to me. Maybe not directly. Maybe it's just a wall post or a blog entry. Not necessarily directed to me. If I choose, I can comment and then a dialogue, however brief, begins. I know more about some of these people and their families than I do my own.
It's a strange kind of isolation.
A very dear friend wrote in her blog of a visit to family she was about to endure. Luckily, the event was more pleasant, or at least less painful, than expected. Conversing via blog on the topic this morning inspired me to create this entry. Warm Baggage. I'll think I'll go up and change the title to include that. Oh yeah, that looks provocative. Maybe even evocative. Therein lies part of my purpose. Evoke thoughts and perhaps emotions in my readers.
I love my family. How many people do you hear say that and follow it almost immediately with "but"? More to the point, I think, do you know anybody that DOESN'T follow it? I don't. Everybody has some reason why some part of the family is nuts, psychotic, criminal, criminally insane, twisted, drugged, or otherwise abnormal. Statistically speaking, unless you're an only child from a family tree of only children, the odds are pretty good that there's a nutjob in the branches. Of course, nutjob is relative, no pun intended. One person can be seen as a nutjob to one and charming to another. We should all realize this. It helps us to tolerate our nutjobs.
But what about those that aren't merely "a little off"? What about those who are mean, belligerent, downright nasty? Do their friends see them as charming? Or do they only hang around with like-minded people? If there are people who see our nasties as charming, then we have to look to the branches and determine if we're the only one who thinks they're nasties. If we're not alone, then we can guess that either our nasties don't like family or they wear two faces. We love them anyway.
My family? Scattered. No, not scatter-brained. Just scattered. Our history spans coast to coast, in one tree, since about 1720. As a result, I have relatives all over the place. Even within only the last couple of generations, the only ones I know, we're spread so far I can't even track them down. I have cousins from Alaska to Florida, Montana to Pennsylvania. As far as I know. My own siblings range from Southern California to Washington to Wisconsin and one that's only Creator knows where. Even my own offspring, and those of my soulmate, are spread coast to coast. I have daughters in New York, Fresno and Los Angeles. Her kids are in Bakersfield, Rhode Island and Fresno. Part of that is what happens when they get old enough to leave the nest. Of course they go off and make a life for themselves. Of course they start new independent lives.
In this age of instant messaging, text messaging, voice mail, email, social networking, you'd think families could stay closer regardless of the miles. My mom stayed in touch with her brothers better using snail mail than I can with my siblings and offspring. Yes, that's sad. Sometimes worse than sad. I have a granddaughter and two stepgrandchildren, from whom I rarely hear. Miles apparently do that. As do past hurts. Yes, there are reasons why I don't hear from my grandkids. Some valid, some considerably less so.
And now, as my friend has also said, my closer family is the group of people I've met through various social networks. There are several whom I love dearly. There are a few that are more significant than most of my blood family. How can this be? How do "people" who only exist as pixels on a computer screen become more "real" than those who share DNA and bonds of lineage and with whom we share common memories? Pretty simple actually. Communication. On a nearly daily basis, I talk to them, they talk to me. Maybe not directly. Maybe it's just a wall post or a blog entry. Not necessarily directed to me. If I choose, I can comment and then a dialogue, however brief, begins. I know more about some of these people and their families than I do my own.
It's a strange kind of isolation.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Remember the Path, Remember the Reason
As I begin, it is almost noon. I am eating breakfast. Breakfast used to be really important to me. I have come to realize however that I should eat when I'm hungry and then not very much. Since arriving in Fresno, I've shed 35 pounds. I'm still not anything close to svelte, but am moderately healthy. None of that has anything to do with why I'm writing today. (Or does it? Maybe it will become clear later.) Almost noon does have relevance. I have been blah. I think it's been for a while. Yesterday brought it firmly and fully to my attention. There was even a why for all the failure of yesterday. Let me recount.
A journey began a few years ago. It has been a journey I sought. And therein lies the current problem. Past tense. My focus changed. Moving here was to provide an opportunity to pursue the potential of a business based on my journey. One would think that would provide inspiration and courage and all those wonderful positive words. Finding the household bank account deficient for paying bills would also be considered encouragement in the pursuit of a business. This morning I learned that is all wrong.
Yesterday, I took my middle class America background and carefully nurtured intellect and thought to apply it to my business. I have the tools. I'm developing the skills. I can mass produce. The result was five flute blanks turned into three potential flutes. One is completely trashed. The last, if it works at all, will likely find its way into my private collection. I tried a technique that sounded good in my head for one of the processes. It worked beautifully. Once. Subsequent attempts were dismal.
At the end of the day, I was frustrated, disappointed, dejected, blah. It came to me a couple hours later. I screwed up. Obviously the techniques I was using were relatively sound, they had worked before. But there was no way that my work yesterday would be productive, at least not fully. You see, I had told myself that morning that I need to honor Creator and Mother Earth and THEN begin work. I had done neither. By the time I had come back into the house, I was cold and sore and tired. The physical manifestation of the energy I had expended only heightened my sense of failure.
I awoke this morning in my usual routine. Which is not to say it is my proper routine. I had a morning routine in Rhode Island. It had nothing to do with preparing for the work day. It had nothing to do with making money. It had everything to do with preparing my Spirit in a manner consistent with my journey. Because I made proper morning preparation, my life was more fulfilling, or at least it seems so compared to what I feel now. I heard the voice that said, "Return to the beginning." Well, this is the beginning! I was born in Fresno! No, dummy, not that beginning. The beginning where this journey started. The beginning that is where the path that led to THIS point, to THIS situation, to THIS choice started. And so, I turned on the music.
Music has always been an important part of my life. Most of the time I use it to help me relax. There are certain pieces, certain artists, that have a different purpose. I need them to focus on where Creator and Mother Earth lead me. I need them to focus on MY Spirit. My inner turmoil needed to be suppressed. No, not suppressed, calmed. In order to do that, though, it was necessary to isolate and meditate. That's what the music does. It creates a barrier to the outside world and opens a doorway to another world. It allows me to hear Mother more clearly. It allows me to run around inside my head, seeing all the different angles and the shadows of them.
I was reminded by my daughter that "outside" is required. I haven't done nearly as much outside as I should. I have difficulty justifying the expense of gasoline when I provide no income. Outside in this apartment complex is less than stimulating to my Spirit. I could get on my bike and go to a more natural setting, but even the parks in this area feel artificial. No, I know a few places where I know I can reconnect with Creator and Mother. Two are California State Recreation Areas. Three are National Parks. I have annual passes to both the State Parks and the National Parks. I've barely used those passes. It's time I figure out how to optimize my expenditure and gain greatest benefit.
I was reminded by a national writer of articles, whom I respect, admire and care about, that I still have, "humor, insight and soul". I had replied to an article she wrote and one of her status lines at Facebook this morning. I guess parts of me still function. Oh yes, those would be the parts that were given to me as gifts by Creator and Mother Earth for the benefit of others. REVELATION!! I am at my best when my focus is outside myself.
That was the problem yesterday. I was focused on me. Maybe not specifically, but subconsciously. I have to make money. I have to build these things. I have to make it all work. While those things may be true, they're not the REASON. I had told myself several months ago that I needed a mission statement for my business. I then embarked on creating a stock of inventory. I still have no mission statement. How can I possibly develop a viable business if I don't know why I'm doing it? There are still things I need to do. I have photogrpahs to take, product to create, web site to create. I realized this morning that none of that will ever work the way it should if I don't know why.
I played my music. I lit the incense. My inner turmoil subsided. I realized I need to put these thoughts in a place where I can be reminded. The title of this entry is that reminder. I can look back at the list of entries and see this one, and remember the why. I am on a path. That path is a journey. It doesn't have a destination, but a purpose. That's the reason. That's the why. I am not here for myself. I am here for others.
Blessings, Love and Peace,
Laughing Bear
A journey began a few years ago. It has been a journey I sought. And therein lies the current problem. Past tense. My focus changed. Moving here was to provide an opportunity to pursue the potential of a business based on my journey. One would think that would provide inspiration and courage and all those wonderful positive words. Finding the household bank account deficient for paying bills would also be considered encouragement in the pursuit of a business. This morning I learned that is all wrong.
Yesterday, I took my middle class America background and carefully nurtured intellect and thought to apply it to my business. I have the tools. I'm developing the skills. I can mass produce. The result was five flute blanks turned into three potential flutes. One is completely trashed. The last, if it works at all, will likely find its way into my private collection. I tried a technique that sounded good in my head for one of the processes. It worked beautifully. Once. Subsequent attempts were dismal.
At the end of the day, I was frustrated, disappointed, dejected, blah. It came to me a couple hours later. I screwed up. Obviously the techniques I was using were relatively sound, they had worked before. But there was no way that my work yesterday would be productive, at least not fully. You see, I had told myself that morning that I need to honor Creator and Mother Earth and THEN begin work. I had done neither. By the time I had come back into the house, I was cold and sore and tired. The physical manifestation of the energy I had expended only heightened my sense of failure.
I awoke this morning in my usual routine. Which is not to say it is my proper routine. I had a morning routine in Rhode Island. It had nothing to do with preparing for the work day. It had nothing to do with making money. It had everything to do with preparing my Spirit in a manner consistent with my journey. Because I made proper morning preparation, my life was more fulfilling, or at least it seems so compared to what I feel now. I heard the voice that said, "Return to the beginning." Well, this is the beginning! I was born in Fresno! No, dummy, not that beginning. The beginning where this journey started. The beginning that is where the path that led to THIS point, to THIS situation, to THIS choice started. And so, I turned on the music.
Music has always been an important part of my life. Most of the time I use it to help me relax. There are certain pieces, certain artists, that have a different purpose. I need them to focus on where Creator and Mother Earth lead me. I need them to focus on MY Spirit. My inner turmoil needed to be suppressed. No, not suppressed, calmed. In order to do that, though, it was necessary to isolate and meditate. That's what the music does. It creates a barrier to the outside world and opens a doorway to another world. It allows me to hear Mother more clearly. It allows me to run around inside my head, seeing all the different angles and the shadows of them.
I was reminded by my daughter that "outside" is required. I haven't done nearly as much outside as I should. I have difficulty justifying the expense of gasoline when I provide no income. Outside in this apartment complex is less than stimulating to my Spirit. I could get on my bike and go to a more natural setting, but even the parks in this area feel artificial. No, I know a few places where I know I can reconnect with Creator and Mother. Two are California State Recreation Areas. Three are National Parks. I have annual passes to both the State Parks and the National Parks. I've barely used those passes. It's time I figure out how to optimize my expenditure and gain greatest benefit.
I was reminded by a national writer of articles, whom I respect, admire and care about, that I still have, "humor, insight and soul". I had replied to an article she wrote and one of her status lines at Facebook this morning. I guess parts of me still function. Oh yes, those would be the parts that were given to me as gifts by Creator and Mother Earth for the benefit of others. REVELATION!! I am at my best when my focus is outside myself.
That was the problem yesterday. I was focused on me. Maybe not specifically, but subconsciously. I have to make money. I have to build these things. I have to make it all work. While those things may be true, they're not the REASON. I had told myself several months ago that I needed a mission statement for my business. I then embarked on creating a stock of inventory. I still have no mission statement. How can I possibly develop a viable business if I don't know why I'm doing it? There are still things I need to do. I have photogrpahs to take, product to create, web site to create. I realized this morning that none of that will ever work the way it should if I don't know why.
I played my music. I lit the incense. My inner turmoil subsided. I realized I need to put these thoughts in a place where I can be reminded. The title of this entry is that reminder. I can look back at the list of entries and see this one, and remember the why. I am on a path. That path is a journey. It doesn't have a destination, but a purpose. That's the reason. That's the why. I am not here for myself. I am here for others.
Blessings, Love and Peace,
Laughing Bear
Monday, November 15, 2010
One of THOSE Moments
I wrote this long, rambling post. I got my coffee. I came back to log into my Flickr account. Flickr has one of those customized greeting lines. Today, mine read:
Hej LaughingBear Ventures!
(Now you know how to greet people in Danish!)
My first thought was that the stupid computer had changed my base language, until I saw the small gray text. Instead, it was an OMG moment. When I got my DNA test results back, the primary marker in my blood is, wait for it, guess at it, DANISH. Yes, I've already heard the jokes. I'm a pastry. Well, at least my shape suggests that I've certainly had my share of them.
Just struck me as odd that Flickr would choose that particular language. Today.
Hej LaughingBear Ventures!
(Now you know how to greet people in Danish!)
My first thought was that the stupid computer had changed my base language, until I saw the small gray text. Instead, it was an OMG moment. When I got my DNA test results back, the primary marker in my blood is, wait for it, guess at it, DANISH. Yes, I've already heard the jokes. I'm a pastry. Well, at least my shape suggests that I've certainly had my share of them.
Just struck me as odd that Flickr would choose that particular language. Today.
Pause to Reflect
I have a feeling this post may ramble a bit. I'm sitting at my desktop computer, not the laptop. Normally, this hour of the day is reserved for catching up on Facebook games. For some reason, this morning started out differently. Brian and Amanda had left before Annie got up to check on Seth. (There you have the list of people with whom I share this apartment.) The boy had apparently managed to get ready for school this morning without the usual drama and fustication. Annie's back is tweaked so she didn't want to get out of bed, and I reset the alarm to accommodate her. I had stayed up a bit late last night working on the web site for LaughingBear Ventures. There's a chill in the air. Nothing like the cold of Rhode Island, for which I am so grateful you can't imagine.
I brewed my pot of coffee. I have to have my coffee. I get cranky if I don't. If a Laughing Bear is cranky in an empty house, does anybody know it? No. He just becomes sullen. Anyway, I looked at the setup in the bedroom where the laptop lives at the end of the bed. I looked at my desk in the living room with the chair I've had for years. I'd much rather be in the chair. But the windows at that end of the apartment leak pretty badly. It'll be less than pleasant for typing fingers. Still, better to be overall comfortable.
Fully intending to visit the stupid games, I start the computer. Many of my Facebook friends are people I have actually met. Some are in other parts of the country, other parts of the world even, and I know them only through the persona they project on the internet. There are a handful whom I am proud to call friend, so much so that I refer to them as brothers and sisters.
One of my sisters, I realized yesterday, reminds me of another very close friend, at least in appearance. Neither of these women are the picture of physical perfection that modern society defines. I describe them as the embodiment of the mother goddess. In my opinion, women are supposed to be soft and have curves. Nature, it seems, agrees with me. For if a woman does not strive to the ideal of Madison Avenue, her body takes on the dimensions of motherhood - slightly wider hips, soft curves in the middle, breasts that are not pointing at the stars. I remember a study that showed a variety of silhouettes images of female bodies to a group of men and the softer bodies were the most popular. The primary question of the study was, "Which shape appeals as your potential mate most?" What does it mean? It means that bodies that look like they can carry and produce offspring must be inherently more attractive to males whose basic drive is to procreate. And there I go rambling.
That ramble started with the visual appeal of my friend. To be honest, I think she's beautiful. She has an amazing smile and is soft in all the right places. She makes me think. One of the things I love about her is that she makes me think not only about the primal urges she inspires, but also about some much deeper issues. Through her own words and the sharing of words of others, somehow she manages to reach into my head and stir me to the very core. Mind you, she's not the only one. All the people in my brother and sister list have that effect. At one time or another, I've hated each and every one of them for revealing to me the shortcomings I see within myself. But because I've developed a spiritual relationship with my Creator, I also realize that those people have been journeying with me for a reason. It doesn't take long for me to change my initial emotional response to something a bit more positive. I love them. (I could SO go off and ramble again.)
So today I scan down the hundreds of posts that appear on my Facebook home page. It's how I start before going to the games. While I may spend the majority of my time at Facebook in the game applications, I do actually read what my friends have to say or share. Sometimes I find their posts worth sharing with my list of friends. If you've read my posts, you may have come to realize that I'm not very focused. I have a lot of interests. It sucks. I want to be able to do all these things and there just aren't enough hours. It's been over an hour and a half now since I sat down and started reading and then writing this. I spent some of that time reading a few blog posts. Each one reached inside me, grabbed hold of something and shook it. Each one got hold of something different. Each one made me take a hard look in my virtual mirror. Each one made me realize I have a lot of work left to do on myself.
Time for my second cup of coffee. Time to unload the dishwasher. Time to empty the sink. Time to find my focus again.
I brewed my pot of coffee. I have to have my coffee. I get cranky if I don't. If a Laughing Bear is cranky in an empty house, does anybody know it? No. He just becomes sullen. Anyway, I looked at the setup in the bedroom where the laptop lives at the end of the bed. I looked at my desk in the living room with the chair I've had for years. I'd much rather be in the chair. But the windows at that end of the apartment leak pretty badly. It'll be less than pleasant for typing fingers. Still, better to be overall comfortable.
Fully intending to visit the stupid games, I start the computer. Many of my Facebook friends are people I have actually met. Some are in other parts of the country, other parts of the world even, and I know them only through the persona they project on the internet. There are a handful whom I am proud to call friend, so much so that I refer to them as brothers and sisters.
One of my sisters, I realized yesterday, reminds me of another very close friend, at least in appearance. Neither of these women are the picture of physical perfection that modern society defines. I describe them as the embodiment of the mother goddess. In my opinion, women are supposed to be soft and have curves. Nature, it seems, agrees with me. For if a woman does not strive to the ideal of Madison Avenue, her body takes on the dimensions of motherhood - slightly wider hips, soft curves in the middle, breasts that are not pointing at the stars. I remember a study that showed a variety of silhouettes images of female bodies to a group of men and the softer bodies were the most popular. The primary question of the study was, "Which shape appeals as your potential mate most?" What does it mean? It means that bodies that look like they can carry and produce offspring must be inherently more attractive to males whose basic drive is to procreate. And there I go rambling.
That ramble started with the visual appeal of my friend. To be honest, I think she's beautiful. She has an amazing smile and is soft in all the right places. She makes me think. One of the things I love about her is that she makes me think not only about the primal urges she inspires, but also about some much deeper issues. Through her own words and the sharing of words of others, somehow she manages to reach into my head and stir me to the very core. Mind you, she's not the only one. All the people in my brother and sister list have that effect. At one time or another, I've hated each and every one of them for revealing to me the shortcomings I see within myself. But because I've developed a spiritual relationship with my Creator, I also realize that those people have been journeying with me for a reason. It doesn't take long for me to change my initial emotional response to something a bit more positive. I love them. (I could SO go off and ramble again.)
So today I scan down the hundreds of posts that appear on my Facebook home page. It's how I start before going to the games. While I may spend the majority of my time at Facebook in the game applications, I do actually read what my friends have to say or share. Sometimes I find their posts worth sharing with my list of friends. If you've read my posts, you may have come to realize that I'm not very focused. I have a lot of interests. It sucks. I want to be able to do all these things and there just aren't enough hours. It's been over an hour and a half now since I sat down and started reading and then writing this. I spent some of that time reading a few blog posts. Each one reached inside me, grabbed hold of something and shook it. Each one got hold of something different. Each one made me take a hard look in my virtual mirror. Each one made me realize I have a lot of work left to do on myself.
Time for my second cup of coffee. Time to unload the dishwasher. Time to empty the sink. Time to find my focus again.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday Was Good
A very long time ago, over half my life in fact, I was in high school. We were unique. A Catholic high school, populated only with boys, that was a combination high school and junior college. What does that mean? Well, it starts with the entrance exam. In late spring of 1972, hundreds (it seemed) of us gathered to take a test to see if we could get in. Anybody going had to know it was going to be an ordeal because they advised we bring a lunch. I could be wrong but I remember it as an 8 hour test. That test, I believe, also led to our placement in our respective homerooms. What makes the school really unique is that the incoming freshmen had the opportunity to choose a field of study in which to major, much like attending college. In a five year program, we would receive the typical four year high school diploma and at the end of the fifth, an Associate in Science degree. The majors then were: Electronics Technology (me), Photolithography, Mettalurgy, Mechanical Technology, Building Technology, Automotive Technology and Drafting and Design Technology.
The school day started at 8am and ended at 4pm. Very much like going to work, so we were not only prepared in a career field, but also ready for a work day. For the first two years, we spent the morning in our academic classess and the afternoon in "shop." Third and fourth year, flip that. Fifth year was a kind of hodgepodge of scheduling because we participated in a cooperative work education program with some of the biggest names in our industries. As a result, I've never worked at McDonald's or Sears or any establishment like that. My first job was with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. If you haven't heard of or don't recognize JPL, think Viking lander on Mars. We worked on the project. Not a bad way to start life, I must say.
Less than three years after graduation, I got married. This first time. My best friends from school were my wedding party. I honestly don't remember much of the ceremony itself, nor the reception. My wife and I, and our families missed most of the reception because we spent what seemed like two hours taking pictures. The lack of organization was staggering. At the end of the event, my wife and I, my sister and her boyfriend, packed up the presents in our cars and headed to our apartment in North Hollywood. We unwrapped and noted everything. I know there were duplicates but that was thirty years ago, don't ask me to remember which. Once everything was sorted and stacked, we decided to look through the guest book. That proved thoroughly depressing for me.
There were dozens of people that I had no knowledge of. Friends of hers, church members past and present. What made it depressing was the number of names I saw from my high school. Guys I had spent most of five years with and I didn't even know they were there because we were practically sequestered.
Ok, why that story? Because not too long ago I found one of my classmates on Facebook. Then I started looking for others. Found two guys I had gone to elementary school and high school with. A week ago or so, one of these guys decided to start a group. Not sure if he meant it to be for just our class, but it's certainly growing that way. The guys are appearing out of the woodwork of Facebook! We've learned of the passing of two of our old friends. We're renewing old friendships. Many of us haven't had any contact in the intervening 33 years. Tuesday was one such day for me.
I spent the better part of the morning chatting with one of my mates from Electronics. Since high school, I've lived in California, Georgia, Texas and Rhode Island. He is now in Colorado and has lost touch with most of our group, too. As new members appear in the group, they bring with them connections to others, ones that we hadn't thought of or forgotten. The group went from five to 39 in about a week.
I pulled what may have been a dirty trick. I scanned the pages from our freshman yearbook. I posted them in the group. Then I scanned our fifth year pages and posted them. One term that showed up in reply was "pathetic" freshman. I think we all had a laugh. It has been amazing to discover where everybody ended up, whether or not that stayed "in industry" and what their families have become. Reliving memories of those frightful days under the watchful gaze of the Salesians and having a good laugh over them.
I am reminded that I am alone. Aside from those I have found on Facebook, there is nobody from my past in my circle of friends. In fact, here in Fresno I cannot say that I have any friends. Yes, I have a portion of my family. But that's it. Ouside this apartment nobody knows me. Nobody in my real world associations has been part of my youth. Is that perhaps why finding my spiritual source had become so important? Maybe.
Here's to old friends and renewed acquaintances. |_B
The school day started at 8am and ended at 4pm. Very much like going to work, so we were not only prepared in a career field, but also ready for a work day. For the first two years, we spent the morning in our academic classess and the afternoon in "shop." Third and fourth year, flip that. Fifth year was a kind of hodgepodge of scheduling because we participated in a cooperative work education program with some of the biggest names in our industries. As a result, I've never worked at McDonald's or Sears or any establishment like that. My first job was with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. If you haven't heard of or don't recognize JPL, think Viking lander on Mars. We worked on the project. Not a bad way to start life, I must say.
Less than three years after graduation, I got married. This first time. My best friends from school were my wedding party. I honestly don't remember much of the ceremony itself, nor the reception. My wife and I, and our families missed most of the reception because we spent what seemed like two hours taking pictures. The lack of organization was staggering. At the end of the event, my wife and I, my sister and her boyfriend, packed up the presents in our cars and headed to our apartment in North Hollywood. We unwrapped and noted everything. I know there were duplicates but that was thirty years ago, don't ask me to remember which. Once everything was sorted and stacked, we decided to look through the guest book. That proved thoroughly depressing for me.
There were dozens of people that I had no knowledge of. Friends of hers, church members past and present. What made it depressing was the number of names I saw from my high school. Guys I had spent most of five years with and I didn't even know they were there because we were practically sequestered.
Ok, why that story? Because not too long ago I found one of my classmates on Facebook. Then I started looking for others. Found two guys I had gone to elementary school and high school with. A week ago or so, one of these guys decided to start a group. Not sure if he meant it to be for just our class, but it's certainly growing that way. The guys are appearing out of the woodwork of Facebook! We've learned of the passing of two of our old friends. We're renewing old friendships. Many of us haven't had any contact in the intervening 33 years. Tuesday was one such day for me.
I spent the better part of the morning chatting with one of my mates from Electronics. Since high school, I've lived in California, Georgia, Texas and Rhode Island. He is now in Colorado and has lost touch with most of our group, too. As new members appear in the group, they bring with them connections to others, ones that we hadn't thought of or forgotten. The group went from five to 39 in about a week.
I pulled what may have been a dirty trick. I scanned the pages from our freshman yearbook. I posted them in the group. Then I scanned our fifth year pages and posted them. One term that showed up in reply was "pathetic" freshman. I think we all had a laugh. It has been amazing to discover where everybody ended up, whether or not that stayed "in industry" and what their families have become. Reliving memories of those frightful days under the watchful gaze of the Salesians and having a good laugh over them.
I am reminded that I am alone. Aside from those I have found on Facebook, there is nobody from my past in my circle of friends. In fact, here in Fresno I cannot say that I have any friends. Yes, I have a portion of my family. But that's it. Ouside this apartment nobody knows me. Nobody in my real world associations has been part of my youth. Is that perhaps why finding my spiritual source had become so important? Maybe.
Here's to old friends and renewed acquaintances. |_B
Monday, November 1, 2010
Are You an Indian?
(This one is going to be a little long. I'm combining a couple of different subjects.)
I have been asked, "Are you an Indian?" I have been asked, "Are you Native American?" I'll address the second question first.
Are you Native American?
Depending on who is asking, I usually reply with, "Well, let me ask you, where were you born?" If I read my questioner correctly, I'll get an answer like, "Here in California" or maybe something a little more specific like a city in the United States. To which I always say, "That means you're an American and since you were born in America, you're a Native American!" This response often garners a puzzled look. Before they can find a way to confuse themselves further, I'll say, "You see, it's like asking someone who speaks French if they are a Native Frenchman." So the term "Native American" applies to probably hundreds of millions of people.
Are you an Indian?
This one is more fun. "No, I was born right here in Fresno!" Or when I was traveling, "No, I was born in the United States." Quite often I get that same puzzled look. "Indians are born in India." That gets them to the "Aha!" moment of what the word means.
Most of the time, after getting my rather confusing, cryptic or thought-provoking replies, the next question is, "So what should you be called?" If I'm in a playful mood, "Mark!" If I'm in an instructional mood, I launch into my soapbox speech, as follows.
Indian is a label. It does have a proper usage. It describes people from India. That label was placed on the indigenous peoples of this continent by an Italian explorer who was lost. He thought he had found a new trade route to India in order to procure the riches of that wonderful land. So calling us Indians is to fail geography, and to many, it's insulting.
Native American applies to anybody born in this hemisphere since the name was applied to the two continents. How did that happen? Another Italian, Amerigo Vespucci drew maps. I'll admit that's quite a feat for coastlines as convoluted and extensive as North and South America. It's also presumptuous. Europe, Asia, Africa, for whom were they named?
As to what to call us, each of the indigenous peoples, often referred to as tribes, have a name they call themselves. Sometimes, the name you hear is not the name the people use. The story goes that a Settler (borrowing a term from someone I recently debated) asked some people in the Arizona area, "Who are those people over there?" indicating to the east. The reply was, "Apache." Now, that was most likely not the name those people called themselves for in the language of the responder the word means "enemy." But it stuck! I can't say if the responder was Navajo, Hopi or Pueblo. It's a legend after all.
While we're at it, Navajo is not the name those people call themselves. Their name for themselves is Dine. (The e is supposed to have an accent mark above it. I could put the appropriate web code in to use the right font, but not everybody has it.) That name does have a translation to English. It means "people." In fact, many tribes simply call themselves "The People". Some are a little more detailed. "The People by the Swift Water", "The People near the Red Rock", and so on.
"Native American" became popular when this country decided to become "politically correct". Don't offend someone by calling them a name they don't like. Did anybody ask the indigenous population what they wanted to be called? No. Why would they? "Those" people have been shuffled off to their reservations, which resemble little more than interrment camps and left to fend for themselves. The Canadian goverment uses the term "First Nations" to refer to their indigenous population. I can get behind that. It at least acknowledges that we were here first.
Now, if after this discourse, I am again asked what to be called, I gently prompt, "Try asking if we're of a First Nation, then ask which one." A wry smile accompanies this advice and a grin of appreciation usually appears.
Why is any of this important to me? Those who know me a bit understand. For those who don't, here's the story.
I grew up in the Los Angeles area. L.A. is without a doubt one of the melting pot communities of the U.S. There are communities within communities of as many different ethnicities as you can count. On a side note, I think this is a good thing. It makes it easier to develop a sense of acceptance for those different from oneself. Growing up, my sister and I were told, or at least I was, that we had Apache and French Canadian blood. I never really thought a whole lot about it. I was raised Catholic and attended thirteen years of Catholic schools. I married into a non-denominational Protestant church. I learned more about the Bible and Christianity. I moved to Georgia and experienced racism that I thought was dead and gone in this country. I moved to Texas and saw less of it, but it still existed. I moved to Rhode Island and began a work experience that was literally to change my life.
My work made it necessary for me to travel. Extensively and often. The existence of indigenous people is much more noticeable in Rhode Island than anywhere else I had lived. I had been thinking about my spiritual future for a few years. As I traveled and saw more of the world, my curiosity grew. I began to wonder what the spiritual beliefs of the First Nations were. It seemed logical that I should explore my own heritage. Going on what I had been told, I started researching Apache culture and beliefs. Using only the Internet, the Apache are an elusive people! I was making little progress. I looked in the direction of the French Canadian my mother had mentioned. There I found the Ojibwe. While there is a fair amount of information about the people and their travels and travails, there is little about their spiritual beliefs.
There is, in fact, a surprisingly (at first) small amount of information about the spiritual belief systems of the First Nations. Surprising at first because eventually I learned that First Nations people are not disposed to share their beliefs, their rituals, their ceremonies, with outsiders. They are not given the "directive" to go out and convert people. In addition, what little information I could gather seemed to indicate that there are great similarities and few differences from one Nation to the next.
I'm not one to give up easily. But I won't pursue something to the point of obssession. I continued with my life and let my spirit sit in the back seat, going along for the ride. I continued to travel, of course, and see more of the wondrous differences in culture and similarities in people. Whenever possible, I would try to learn a little of the local language. I had to at least be able to say, "Excuse me. I'm an American. I don't speak your language well." I have found that this simple phrase can alleviate much of the distaste other people seem to have for Americans. I digress. During what was I believe my second trip to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, I felt the urge to renew my search. I found a marvelous bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. I would thoroughly enjoy spending a month exploring the Library of Congress. In this Canadian bookstore, I found a book that triggered my metamorphosis.
I began a journey into the "weird," the "spooky," and all those other words that most Americans would associate spiritual connection to the world around them. The more I learned, the more I studied, for now I had found the way to discover information, the more I could feel something deep within me stirring. I was now hungry for more. I carried as many of my books with me as I could when I traveled. I bought new books. I could feel the "Indian" rising.
I knew I had no right to call myself and "Indian." I was raised by a couple of seriously white folks, in a Catholic household, in middle class suburbia. I knew of the hardships, on the surface, that were the norm for those who live on reservations. And yet, part of me kept saying, "Those are your people." My travels continued and I saw more of the world. I have been so blessed to have found my way to that situation. One of my trips took me to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. Yep, it's a mouthful. Geographically, it's about like going to Kansa in the United States. It's really flat. There's a lot of farming. And some genuinely warm people.
By this time I had begun to display affectations of being "Indian." Since this wasn't my first trip to Saskatoon and the course I was presenting was less than a day, I asked the guys in the class what there was to do in the area. One, whom I call friend, looked at me and said, "You're into that Indian suff, right? There's a place just ouside town you might like. I can't pronounce the name though." I grinned to myself and we proceeded to look in the phone book. We found it. The Wanuskewin Heritage Park sounded like a great place for me to visit.
I went back to my hotel and changed my clothes. The drive was easy enough. The Park was easy to find. I won't go into details other than to say they have a museum, a gift shop and a lot of land. On that land are also archaeological sites. One of which is a living area and another is a medicine wheel. Both are dated at over 3000 years old. Of most importance for my story are the trails. Wanuskewin is owned and operated by the Cree. In order to preserve the site and any potential discoveries, they have laid out several trails, including distance and walking time markers. I chose to walk until closing. At times I would find myself in locations where no sign of "civilization" could be found. I would look around and see this land as a place where people lived, loved and survived. I felt an odd sense of home in this place. It was comfortable to be there. I took that feeling with me back to the hotel.
Not long after, I found myself in Phoenix, Arizona. This trip was for a week and a half, so I had a weekend to explore. I much preferred the trips that lasted at least that long. A single week trip afforded me no opportunity to explore wherever I found myself. With a weekend in Phoenix, I could take the rental car and head north. I-17 heads north from Phoenix to Flagstaff. I had driven through Flagstaff in the middle of the night on the way from California to Georgia. I also knew I could detour on the way back to Sedona. I had heard so much about Sedona that I wanted to see it for myself.
On the drive north, I detoured. Off into the desert that sprawls around Arizona. I got out of the car and wandered among the scrub, finding wild sage here and there. The aroma of it filled the air and my spirit. Once more I got that feeling of home. It was peaceful, quiet, comforting. I got to Flagstaff, got gas and headed down 89A toward Flagstaff. What a beautiful drive! I never expected to find a mountain road, complete with accompanying river in Arizona! I arrived in Sedona, on a Saturday, and felt like I had rolled into an outdoor mall. There were too many people! They all looked like tourists looking for that special gift. I wasn't getting that "spiritual" vibe I had expected. I continued through town and headed back toward I-17. Yet again, I was drawn to pull off the main road and explore. Of course, that sense of home and belonging overcame me once I did.
The following day, I decided to explore a little closer to Phoenix. In fact, there is a park just northeast of the airport. I went there. To most, it's nothing more than sand and a large rock formation. I climbed it. I'm an old fat guy and it was hot that day. I probably shouldn't have done it, but that would have been the logical white man thing to think. I was again drawn. It was like an oasis of nature in the middle of the concrete jungle. I found a ledge upon which to sit and reflect on the mountains I could see in the distance. Ok, you probably already guessed, and yes, I was home.
Returning to Rhode Island, I found myself needing to find out for sure who I am. We discovered there were powwows held in New England. We started attending. A flyer we saw told us of a place in Connecticut called the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center. One of their events is the Winter Festival. At this festival was to be a performer named Robert Mirabal. His instrument of choice is the Native American Flute. I've heard them and thought the sounds enchanting. We went. Both days. After the concerts, we talked with Robert and I was then completely hooked on the flute. I had grand hopes that it would be part of my heritage.
I started scouring the Internet. I found a company that does DNA testing. They claim to be able to tell you where your ancestors have been. For a little more money, they'll run an extended series of tests and tell you not only if you have "Indian" ancestry, but also from which tribes. This seemed to be the solution! I sent for the kit. I sent in my swabs and waited. The results came back on a CD. The primary portion of the test held few surprises. I knew my father's branch of the tree was Western European. This was confirmed. The surprise came when the results showed Australia as a "source" location. Ok, that actually makes some sense, too. If the Western European component of my ancestry had a slight "criminal" tinge to it, that could explain some of it ending up in Australia. After all, it was a penal colony at one time.
So here comes the "weird" and "spooky" part. My ancestry includes Cree and Navajo blood. The Cree operate Wanuskewin, remember? The Navajo covered Arizona and New Mexico at one point. Talk about an "Aha!" moment! No wonder I felt so comfortable in those places! And so began my journey.
I continue to learn and grow and expand. I no longer use the words weird or spooky or creepy. I have come to understand that these occurrences are simply my connection with Mother Earth becoming tighter and closer. All along my hunny had been telling me to stop using those words. She was convinced that I was a medicine man of some sort. I know I can't call myself a medicine man. There's a lot more involved in earning that title. I do, however, seem to possess a strong connection and keen sense of the Spirits that surround us.
I have been asked, "Are you an Indian?" I have been asked, "Are you Native American?" I'll address the second question first.
Are you Native American?
Depending on who is asking, I usually reply with, "Well, let me ask you, where were you born?" If I read my questioner correctly, I'll get an answer like, "Here in California" or maybe something a little more specific like a city in the United States. To which I always say, "That means you're an American and since you were born in America, you're a Native American!" This response often garners a puzzled look. Before they can find a way to confuse themselves further, I'll say, "You see, it's like asking someone who speaks French if they are a Native Frenchman." So the term "Native American" applies to probably hundreds of millions of people.
Are you an Indian?
This one is more fun. "No, I was born right here in Fresno!" Or when I was traveling, "No, I was born in the United States." Quite often I get that same puzzled look. "Indians are born in India." That gets them to the "Aha!" moment of what the word means.
Most of the time, after getting my rather confusing, cryptic or thought-provoking replies, the next question is, "So what should you be called?" If I'm in a playful mood, "Mark!" If I'm in an instructional mood, I launch into my soapbox speech, as follows.
Indian is a label. It does have a proper usage. It describes people from India. That label was placed on the indigenous peoples of this continent by an Italian explorer who was lost. He thought he had found a new trade route to India in order to procure the riches of that wonderful land. So calling us Indians is to fail geography, and to many, it's insulting.
Native American applies to anybody born in this hemisphere since the name was applied to the two continents. How did that happen? Another Italian, Amerigo Vespucci drew maps. I'll admit that's quite a feat for coastlines as convoluted and extensive as North and South America. It's also presumptuous. Europe, Asia, Africa, for whom were they named?
As to what to call us, each of the indigenous peoples, often referred to as tribes, have a name they call themselves. Sometimes, the name you hear is not the name the people use. The story goes that a Settler (borrowing a term from someone I recently debated) asked some people in the Arizona area, "Who are those people over there?" indicating to the east. The reply was, "Apache." Now, that was most likely not the name those people called themselves for in the language of the responder the word means "enemy." But it stuck! I can't say if the responder was Navajo, Hopi or Pueblo. It's a legend after all.
While we're at it, Navajo is not the name those people call themselves. Their name for themselves is Dine. (The e is supposed to have an accent mark above it. I could put the appropriate web code in to use the right font, but not everybody has it.) That name does have a translation to English. It means "people." In fact, many tribes simply call themselves "The People". Some are a little more detailed. "The People by the Swift Water", "The People near the Red Rock", and so on.
"Native American" became popular when this country decided to become "politically correct". Don't offend someone by calling them a name they don't like. Did anybody ask the indigenous population what they wanted to be called? No. Why would they? "Those" people have been shuffled off to their reservations, which resemble little more than interrment camps and left to fend for themselves. The Canadian goverment uses the term "First Nations" to refer to their indigenous population. I can get behind that. It at least acknowledges that we were here first.
Now, if after this discourse, I am again asked what to be called, I gently prompt, "Try asking if we're of a First Nation, then ask which one." A wry smile accompanies this advice and a grin of appreciation usually appears.
Why is any of this important to me? Those who know me a bit understand. For those who don't, here's the story.
I grew up in the Los Angeles area. L.A. is without a doubt one of the melting pot communities of the U.S. There are communities within communities of as many different ethnicities as you can count. On a side note, I think this is a good thing. It makes it easier to develop a sense of acceptance for those different from oneself. Growing up, my sister and I were told, or at least I was, that we had Apache and French Canadian blood. I never really thought a whole lot about it. I was raised Catholic and attended thirteen years of Catholic schools. I married into a non-denominational Protestant church. I learned more about the Bible and Christianity. I moved to Georgia and experienced racism that I thought was dead and gone in this country. I moved to Texas and saw less of it, but it still existed. I moved to Rhode Island and began a work experience that was literally to change my life.
My work made it necessary for me to travel. Extensively and often. The existence of indigenous people is much more noticeable in Rhode Island than anywhere else I had lived. I had been thinking about my spiritual future for a few years. As I traveled and saw more of the world, my curiosity grew. I began to wonder what the spiritual beliefs of the First Nations were. It seemed logical that I should explore my own heritage. Going on what I had been told, I started researching Apache culture and beliefs. Using only the Internet, the Apache are an elusive people! I was making little progress. I looked in the direction of the French Canadian my mother had mentioned. There I found the Ojibwe. While there is a fair amount of information about the people and their travels and travails, there is little about their spiritual beliefs.
There is, in fact, a surprisingly (at first) small amount of information about the spiritual belief systems of the First Nations. Surprising at first because eventually I learned that First Nations people are not disposed to share their beliefs, their rituals, their ceremonies, with outsiders. They are not given the "directive" to go out and convert people. In addition, what little information I could gather seemed to indicate that there are great similarities and few differences from one Nation to the next.
I'm not one to give up easily. But I won't pursue something to the point of obssession. I continued with my life and let my spirit sit in the back seat, going along for the ride. I continued to travel, of course, and see more of the wondrous differences in culture and similarities in people. Whenever possible, I would try to learn a little of the local language. I had to at least be able to say, "Excuse me. I'm an American. I don't speak your language well." I have found that this simple phrase can alleviate much of the distaste other people seem to have for Americans. I digress. During what was I believe my second trip to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, I felt the urge to renew my search. I found a marvelous bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. I would thoroughly enjoy spending a month exploring the Library of Congress. In this Canadian bookstore, I found a book that triggered my metamorphosis.
I began a journey into the "weird," the "spooky," and all those other words that most Americans would associate spiritual connection to the world around them. The more I learned, the more I studied, for now I had found the way to discover information, the more I could feel something deep within me stirring. I was now hungry for more. I carried as many of my books with me as I could when I traveled. I bought new books. I could feel the "Indian" rising.
I knew I had no right to call myself and "Indian." I was raised by a couple of seriously white folks, in a Catholic household, in middle class suburbia. I knew of the hardships, on the surface, that were the norm for those who live on reservations. And yet, part of me kept saying, "Those are your people." My travels continued and I saw more of the world. I have been so blessed to have found my way to that situation. One of my trips took me to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. Yep, it's a mouthful. Geographically, it's about like going to Kansa in the United States. It's really flat. There's a lot of farming. And some genuinely warm people.
By this time I had begun to display affectations of being "Indian." Since this wasn't my first trip to Saskatoon and the course I was presenting was less than a day, I asked the guys in the class what there was to do in the area. One, whom I call friend, looked at me and said, "You're into that Indian suff, right? There's a place just ouside town you might like. I can't pronounce the name though." I grinned to myself and we proceeded to look in the phone book. We found it. The Wanuskewin Heritage Park sounded like a great place for me to visit.
I went back to my hotel and changed my clothes. The drive was easy enough. The Park was easy to find. I won't go into details other than to say they have a museum, a gift shop and a lot of land. On that land are also archaeological sites. One of which is a living area and another is a medicine wheel. Both are dated at over 3000 years old. Of most importance for my story are the trails. Wanuskewin is owned and operated by the Cree. In order to preserve the site and any potential discoveries, they have laid out several trails, including distance and walking time markers. I chose to walk until closing. At times I would find myself in locations where no sign of "civilization" could be found. I would look around and see this land as a place where people lived, loved and survived. I felt an odd sense of home in this place. It was comfortable to be there. I took that feeling with me back to the hotel.
Not long after, I found myself in Phoenix, Arizona. This trip was for a week and a half, so I had a weekend to explore. I much preferred the trips that lasted at least that long. A single week trip afforded me no opportunity to explore wherever I found myself. With a weekend in Phoenix, I could take the rental car and head north. I-17 heads north from Phoenix to Flagstaff. I had driven through Flagstaff in the middle of the night on the way from California to Georgia. I also knew I could detour on the way back to Sedona. I had heard so much about Sedona that I wanted to see it for myself.
On the drive north, I detoured. Off into the desert that sprawls around Arizona. I got out of the car and wandered among the scrub, finding wild sage here and there. The aroma of it filled the air and my spirit. Once more I got that feeling of home. It was peaceful, quiet, comforting. I got to Flagstaff, got gas and headed down 89A toward Flagstaff. What a beautiful drive! I never expected to find a mountain road, complete with accompanying river in Arizona! I arrived in Sedona, on a Saturday, and felt like I had rolled into an outdoor mall. There were too many people! They all looked like tourists looking for that special gift. I wasn't getting that "spiritual" vibe I had expected. I continued through town and headed back toward I-17. Yet again, I was drawn to pull off the main road and explore. Of course, that sense of home and belonging overcame me once I did.
The following day, I decided to explore a little closer to Phoenix. In fact, there is a park just northeast of the airport. I went there. To most, it's nothing more than sand and a large rock formation. I climbed it. I'm an old fat guy and it was hot that day. I probably shouldn't have done it, but that would have been the logical white man thing to think. I was again drawn. It was like an oasis of nature in the middle of the concrete jungle. I found a ledge upon which to sit and reflect on the mountains I could see in the distance. Ok, you probably already guessed, and yes, I was home.
Returning to Rhode Island, I found myself needing to find out for sure who I am. We discovered there were powwows held in New England. We started attending. A flyer we saw told us of a place in Connecticut called the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center. One of their events is the Winter Festival. At this festival was to be a performer named Robert Mirabal. His instrument of choice is the Native American Flute. I've heard them and thought the sounds enchanting. We went. Both days. After the concerts, we talked with Robert and I was then completely hooked on the flute. I had grand hopes that it would be part of my heritage.
I started scouring the Internet. I found a company that does DNA testing. They claim to be able to tell you where your ancestors have been. For a little more money, they'll run an extended series of tests and tell you not only if you have "Indian" ancestry, but also from which tribes. This seemed to be the solution! I sent for the kit. I sent in my swabs and waited. The results came back on a CD. The primary portion of the test held few surprises. I knew my father's branch of the tree was Western European. This was confirmed. The surprise came when the results showed Australia as a "source" location. Ok, that actually makes some sense, too. If the Western European component of my ancestry had a slight "criminal" tinge to it, that could explain some of it ending up in Australia. After all, it was a penal colony at one time.
So here comes the "weird" and "spooky" part. My ancestry includes Cree and Navajo blood. The Cree operate Wanuskewin, remember? The Navajo covered Arizona and New Mexico at one point. Talk about an "Aha!" moment! No wonder I felt so comfortable in those places! And so began my journey.
I continue to learn and grow and expand. I no longer use the words weird or spooky or creepy. I have come to understand that these occurrences are simply my connection with Mother Earth becoming tighter and closer. All along my hunny had been telling me to stop using those words. She was convinced that I was a medicine man of some sort. I know I can't call myself a medicine man. There's a lot more involved in earning that title. I do, however, seem to possess a strong connection and keen sense of the Spirits that surround us.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Satisfaction from Learning
So yesterday was what I thought would be the biggest challenge. I tuned the flute. It really wasn't as hard as I expected. In a way, I cheated. I have seven other flutes. I took every measurement I could think of then averaged the figures. Turns out that's not a bad way to go. My numbers worked pretty well. The holes all fell within a tolerance where I could adjust them to the pitch that was correct. Except one. It was too large to start. That's not a good thing. However, it's not too terribly far out and this isn't going to be a performance flute anyway. It's my first attempt. It has some issues.
Fortunately, I've reached an age where I can learn from issues. To be honest, I as surprised the thing made a sound at all. The Sound Chamber is a strange shape, which I should have fixed. Even with that, it makes a flute sound. It doesn't have much volume, partly because of the reduced size of the Sound Chamber. I had to use a fetish from another flute because I couldn't get the one I made to work worth squat. Ok, so I move on to either another way of making the one I want, or make the Flue Channel a different way. I haven't decided yet.
Overall, I am satisfied with the experience. I am still challenged and I still have a healthy respect for the power tools. Which probably explains why I'm so sore today. I spent several hours in the garage drilling holes, making adjustments, shaping the outer tube and generally fretting. Again, truly a learning experience. I can now put down on paper the steps that I will follow to make the next one, increasing my efficiency. I know that doesn't sound very spiritually oriented, but I don't have the workshop of my dreams. I have to move a couple of my tools onto and off of the workbench. So only moving them once is in my best interest, and keeping myself undamaged is one way for me to honor Creator and Mother Earth. After all, I owe my existence to them.
Sitting in the house today nursing my aches also meant that I was not in the garage when our postal carrier arrived. A package arrived today from New Hampshire. Bob WhiteBear is as close to a spiritual brother as I will ever find. I'm sure of this. He and I understand each other. We see things the same way. We especially see flutes the same. What comes out of a flute is an expression of Spirit and feeling and sharing. I met Bob at the Trudeau Center Powwow in Warwick, Rhode Island four years ago. (I think. Time does tend to run together these days.) During that encounter, I felt something special about the man on the other side of the table. He makes flute. He makes hand drums. When I expressed an interest in the flutes, he suggested the Amon Olorin PF. Big fancy sounding name for a flute made of PVC. It's special in that it's actually two flute in one. It consists of a mouthpiece and interchangeable sound chambers. I bought it. I also bought a hand drum made with elk hide. I was hooked.
That plastic pipe flute has traveled. In the last eight years, I've been almost all over the world. That particular flute went with me to Madrid, Spain. I drove north to what I believe was a ski resort, got the flute out and played in the woods. I have since carried other flutes to other parts of the world. Back in Rhode Island, we would attend as many powwows as we could. We would often encounter Bob and his booth. He and I would spend quite a bit of time chatting, whenever there wasn't a customer for him to attend. This is how we developed the bond we have. About three years ago, Bob brought a flute that was made of a beautiful striped pale wood. Most striking was the ebony fetish atop the flue. I commissioned a flute made exactly the reverse. I wanted the flute body to be ebony. The result is one of the most striking pieces of wood. It was also quite a challenge for Bob because ebony is a seriously hard wood. That means it is difficult to work in the kind of detail required by a flute.
Everybody that sees that flute marvels. Well, two years ago this past weekend I challenged him again. I wanted a WhiteBear drone. Bob has started woodburning the foot of his flutes, so I asked for a Laughing Bear. I also wanted individual fetishes for the two sides. Because I know Bob and love him as a brother, I know he agonized over this flute. It had to be perfect. I understand that all too well. He called last Saturday and said it would ship shortly. He was having trouble with the Laughing Bear so he asked an artist friend to design one. He was having difficulty with the bear fetishes and asked another artisan for help. The result finally came to his liking. He had told me in the past that he had scrapped the project three times because it wasn't right.
It arrived today. That postal carrier needed my autograph (signature) for the package. Had I been in the garage working on my next one, I would have missed her. I honestly do not have the words to express my gratitude to my brother. Sure, I paid for the flute and waited two years for it. That's irrelevant. There is a part of my brother deeply entrenched in wood. His soul, his prayers, his attitude, they're all there. I can feel them. When I play it, and I have even though it's almost too beautiful to touch, I can feel him sitting next to me, smiling.
When I finish this and post it, I'll send the pictures to Flickr and they'll appear in the stream. I tried very hard to capture what this flute means to me. But they're only pictures. It must be heard. It must be held. I will.
Fortunately, I've reached an age where I can learn from issues. To be honest, I as surprised the thing made a sound at all. The Sound Chamber is a strange shape, which I should have fixed. Even with that, it makes a flute sound. It doesn't have much volume, partly because of the reduced size of the Sound Chamber. I had to use a fetish from another flute because I couldn't get the one I made to work worth squat. Ok, so I move on to either another way of making the one I want, or make the Flue Channel a different way. I haven't decided yet.
Overall, I am satisfied with the experience. I am still challenged and I still have a healthy respect for the power tools. Which probably explains why I'm so sore today. I spent several hours in the garage drilling holes, making adjustments, shaping the outer tube and generally fretting. Again, truly a learning experience. I can now put down on paper the steps that I will follow to make the next one, increasing my efficiency. I know that doesn't sound very spiritually oriented, but I don't have the workshop of my dreams. I have to move a couple of my tools onto and off of the workbench. So only moving them once is in my best interest, and keeping myself undamaged is one way for me to honor Creator and Mother Earth. After all, I owe my existence to them.
Sitting in the house today nursing my aches also meant that I was not in the garage when our postal carrier arrived. A package arrived today from New Hampshire. Bob WhiteBear is as close to a spiritual brother as I will ever find. I'm sure of this. He and I understand each other. We see things the same way. We especially see flutes the same. What comes out of a flute is an expression of Spirit and feeling and sharing. I met Bob at the Trudeau Center Powwow in Warwick, Rhode Island four years ago. (I think. Time does tend to run together these days.) During that encounter, I felt something special about the man on the other side of the table. He makes flute. He makes hand drums. When I expressed an interest in the flutes, he suggested the Amon Olorin PF. Big fancy sounding name for a flute made of PVC. It's special in that it's actually two flute in one. It consists of a mouthpiece and interchangeable sound chambers. I bought it. I also bought a hand drum made with elk hide. I was hooked.
That plastic pipe flute has traveled. In the last eight years, I've been almost all over the world. That particular flute went with me to Madrid, Spain. I drove north to what I believe was a ski resort, got the flute out and played in the woods. I have since carried other flutes to other parts of the world. Back in Rhode Island, we would attend as many powwows as we could. We would often encounter Bob and his booth. He and I would spend quite a bit of time chatting, whenever there wasn't a customer for him to attend. This is how we developed the bond we have. About three years ago, Bob brought a flute that was made of a beautiful striped pale wood. Most striking was the ebony fetish atop the flue. I commissioned a flute made exactly the reverse. I wanted the flute body to be ebony. The result is one of the most striking pieces of wood. It was also quite a challenge for Bob because ebony is a seriously hard wood. That means it is difficult to work in the kind of detail required by a flute.
Everybody that sees that flute marvels. Well, two years ago this past weekend I challenged him again. I wanted a WhiteBear drone. Bob has started woodburning the foot of his flutes, so I asked for a Laughing Bear. I also wanted individual fetishes for the two sides. Because I know Bob and love him as a brother, I know he agonized over this flute. It had to be perfect. I understand that all too well. He called last Saturday and said it would ship shortly. He was having trouble with the Laughing Bear so he asked an artist friend to design one. He was having difficulty with the bear fetishes and asked another artisan for help. The result finally came to his liking. He had told me in the past that he had scrapped the project three times because it wasn't right.
It arrived today. That postal carrier needed my autograph (signature) for the package. Had I been in the garage working on my next one, I would have missed her. I honestly do not have the words to express my gratitude to my brother. Sure, I paid for the flute and waited two years for it. That's irrelevant. There is a part of my brother deeply entrenched in wood. His soul, his prayers, his attitude, they're all there. I can feel them. When I play it, and I have even though it's almost too beautiful to touch, I can feel him sitting next to me, smiling.
When I finish this and post it, I'll send the pictures to Flickr and they'll appear in the stream. I tried very hard to capture what this flute means to me. But they're only pictures. It must be heard. It must be held. I will.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Surprise Waiting for Satisfaction
One of my goals for quite some time has been to create a Native American style flute for myself. I've done the research, contacted other flute makers, even had a couple custom built for me. Upon arriving in Fresno, I determined that I should acquire the tools I would need. Table saw, router table, drill press, belt sander, scroll saw and bench grinder. (Don't know why the grinder, I've just always wanted one.) I picked up a piece of wood that I thought would work as a flute, actually two because of the length. I have a garage full of fifty years of living. I had a plan for making the space for these tools. I even bought an honest-to-goodness workbench. Then Spring became Summer. In Fresno, that means triple digits for nearly four months. Sure I could have gone out in the early morning hours. Who wants to get up that early?
Well, toward the end of the hot season, I went ahead and assembled all the power tools. Keep in mind I'm not a wood craftsman. In fact, wood and I haven't exactly gotten along in the past. Nearly thirty years ago I built a bookcase. It was custom designed to fit the space I had and for paperback books. It's really pretty good except for the bottom. You see, I didn't have any fancy tools then. I used a hand saw. So it leans. Forward. My daughter can attest because she still has it. I digress. So now I have all these really pretty tools in my garage. I now have considerably less space than I expected. No matter, I have become accustomed to shuffling this to make room for that.
I don't know if you've ever worked with power tools on wood. I have, a little, and I knew that sharp things moving very fast through wood can spread a lot of dust. I had no idea the potential volume! Let's just say that when you're warned to wear a mask, DO IT! I have a series of pictures at Facebook and Flickr that show the process and some of the dust mess. I have several friends who like to track my progress. So I stop, take a picture, move on. Sometimes I forget. Sorry. I have at least one friend that wants me to make a video of the whole thing. She's sweet and funny and I love her dearly but I'm not sure I want to subject my photographic equipment to that environment!
So, I've cut and drilled and sanded and glued. I've cursed and laughed (at myself) and questioned my sanity. Through it all, however, I have asked Creator and Mother Earth to help me get through it. Yesterday I glued the two halves back together. I clamped them and set them aside. The bottle says thirty minutes to set and 24 hours for something approaching permanent bond. I left it alone for 7 hours. The result is a square tube with a couple holes in the top. I took the fetish from one of my other flutes and set it in place. I raised the rather sad looking thing to my lips and blew. To my very great surprise, it sounded like a flute. Considerably higher pitched than I expected, but a clear tone nonetheless.
In a reply to my status at Facbook, a dear friend said, "Satisfying isn't it?" I'm still waiting for the surprise to wear off, but satisfaction is quickly replacing it. Prayers do get answered. I've been trying to maintain my focus on doing this the "right way." That's an expression from indigenous peoples that means "do it with respect" for all things. I guess I'm on the right path.
Well, toward the end of the hot season, I went ahead and assembled all the power tools. Keep in mind I'm not a wood craftsman. In fact, wood and I haven't exactly gotten along in the past. Nearly thirty years ago I built a bookcase. It was custom designed to fit the space I had and for paperback books. It's really pretty good except for the bottom. You see, I didn't have any fancy tools then. I used a hand saw. So it leans. Forward. My daughter can attest because she still has it. I digress. So now I have all these really pretty tools in my garage. I now have considerably less space than I expected. No matter, I have become accustomed to shuffling this to make room for that.
I don't know if you've ever worked with power tools on wood. I have, a little, and I knew that sharp things moving very fast through wood can spread a lot of dust. I had no idea the potential volume! Let's just say that when you're warned to wear a mask, DO IT! I have a series of pictures at Facebook and Flickr that show the process and some of the dust mess. I have several friends who like to track my progress. So I stop, take a picture, move on. Sometimes I forget. Sorry. I have at least one friend that wants me to make a video of the whole thing. She's sweet and funny and I love her dearly but I'm not sure I want to subject my photographic equipment to that environment!
So, I've cut and drilled and sanded and glued. I've cursed and laughed (at myself) and questioned my sanity. Through it all, however, I have asked Creator and Mother Earth to help me get through it. Yesterday I glued the two halves back together. I clamped them and set them aside. The bottle says thirty minutes to set and 24 hours for something approaching permanent bond. I left it alone for 7 hours. The result is a square tube with a couple holes in the top. I took the fetish from one of my other flutes and set it in place. I raised the rather sad looking thing to my lips and blew. To my very great surprise, it sounded like a flute. Considerably higher pitched than I expected, but a clear tone nonetheless.
In a reply to my status at Facbook, a dear friend said, "Satisfying isn't it?" I'm still waiting for the surprise to wear off, but satisfaction is quickly replacing it. Prayers do get answered. I've been trying to maintain my focus on doing this the "right way." That's an expression from indigenous peoples that means "do it with respect" for all things. I guess I'm on the right path.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Starting at Not the Beginning
What prompts someone to publish their thoughts and feelings on the Internet? A desire for validation? The need for love and admiration? An outgoing personality that wants to share itself with the world? Am I one or all of those? The intellectual part of me hopes not. The vain part of me, of course, is all about those things. I believe, in my heart, that I will share of myself those things that others will find interesting, amusing, inspiring, maybe even enlightening. Entertainment mixed with a bit of education may be my goal. At least that sounds pretty good.
The name? LaughingBear is a name that was given under unusual circumstances. Unusual is such a subjective term. What's usual for one may be shocking for another. Experience creates the environment in which usual is born. I'll post an entry with that story another time. I'm sure I'll be reminded, too.
LaughingBear Ventures describes the lofty ambitions I've set for myself. I have too many interests; hobbies, pursuits, aspirations, and wanted a way to roll them all up in one neat package. It wasn't easy finding a name that didn't already exist, for this is also to be a business enterprise. Therein lies my biggest challenge. How do I turn what I think I can do into something that may provide some financial support? I've already taken the first steps. And yes, that's a subject for another entry.
So here I sit, contemplating all the things that I want to insert into this expose of me. Follow the dreams of a middle-aged man with a confused and complicated past, if you wish. I'll do my best to follow the example of a dear friend on another continent and make these entries with some regularity.
For now, I leave you with my standard closing (which will also be explained later):
Blessings, Love and Peace
Laughing Bear
The name? LaughingBear is a name that was given under unusual circumstances. Unusual is such a subjective term. What's usual for one may be shocking for another. Experience creates the environment in which usual is born. I'll post an entry with that story another time. I'm sure I'll be reminded, too.
LaughingBear Ventures describes the lofty ambitions I've set for myself. I have too many interests; hobbies, pursuits, aspirations, and wanted a way to roll them all up in one neat package. It wasn't easy finding a name that didn't already exist, for this is also to be a business enterprise. Therein lies my biggest challenge. How do I turn what I think I can do into something that may provide some financial support? I've already taken the first steps. And yes, that's a subject for another entry.
So here I sit, contemplating all the things that I want to insert into this expose of me. Follow the dreams of a middle-aged man with a confused and complicated past, if you wish. I'll do my best to follow the example of a dear friend on another continent and make these entries with some regularity.
For now, I leave you with my standard closing (which will also be explained later):
Blessings, Love and Peace
Laughing Bear
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It’s also a time to prepare. Spring will come and the seeds of the new year must be ready for planting. The times of going out to meet friends again, whether from nearby or far away, will arrive sooner than we think. So we spend some of this time creating, to share of ourselves with each other. Some will create artifacts, some will share old family recipes.
As winter forces us to reduce our activity, we must remember that there are reasons and not forget to look forward as well.
I admit it's something I struggle with, too. It's tough to slow down when you've spent the better part of half a century running full steam ahead to be an American. Now is my time to be an Indian. On the powwow circuit, there is always a scheduled start time. The Grand Entry will be at noon. Or 11. Or 1. Those are the typical times. The real times are 12:05-12:30, 11:15-11:40, 1:00-1:20, on average. Why? Because, as it was explained to me, and is usually announced at the powwow, "We do things on Indian time." What does that mean? Not that we don't care about time. It means that things happen when they happen. Schedules are not part of the Indian way of life. We have things to do. They get done. Don't ask when, or set a deadline. Seasons come and go and we know what needs to be done in and for each. If it's a long term goal, it could take a day or a week. Sometimes, instead of taking an anticipated four months, a project takes just over two years. But that is an unusual situation that I was more than willing to wait for, and it was very much worth it.
Can we change modes, from city life to country life? Of course. It only takes time. How much time depends on the person. The longer you've lived as a city-dweller, the longer it will take to adjust. Usually. I say that because sometimes the adjustment is made easier by a change in the heart. That happened to me. When my heart changed to see things from a very different point of view, the hustle and bustle no longer held any appeal. Can my friend make the change? I'm sure she can. Eventually. I think her situation will make that difficult though. I believe she'll be headed back to suburbia before she can fully acclimate to rural life. If she stayed, I know she could. She's a strong lady, intelligent and wise. She also has a big heart that, I think, can accept the change and grow with it.
Can you do it? Have you done it? And which way? Either transition can be traumatic.
Blessings, Love and Peace to you all.