Let’s Talk About It
originally posted November 3 2017
In the wake of the many #metoo posts it is obviously time we started to talk about it. While I am not at all surprised at how many women have experienced sexual harassment, I am a bit surprised at their reluctance to talk about it. (Go ahead, take a moment and wonder what is wrong with me and how I can be so stupid or naïve. I’m ready for it.) Certainly I understand that in the moment, at the time, many women were unprepared and unable to verbalize what happened. But later, much later, without naming names, many women never told their sons or daughters about some their personal experiences at least as a word of warning. That surprised me. I don’t have kids. I talk a lot.
The more I thought about it the more I remembered small incidents when I was much younger. When I was sixteen and working as a waitress a customer moved beyond rude and annoying into sexual harassment. “Hold that thought” I said with my well practiced waitress smile. I came back with a full pot of coffee and held it over his lap. “Now, what was that you were saying?” That may sound sort of gutsy, but it wasn’t. But I worked with great people. It was just a summer job, not a career, and I knew I wouldn’t be back next year. I was fearless, because I had nothing at risk. I don’t remember what the guy had said that angered me. I don’t remember what he looked like. I only remember that he mumbled “nothing” and I replied with a smug “that’s what I thought”. I remember that he left without tipping me. While we chatted a bit about it that day at work, I don’t think I shared that story with friends. I know I never shared it with my nieces or nephews as they went off to their first jobs.
Why didn’t I share that story widely, back when I remembered all the details? For me, speaking up and fighting back was always my instinct. Sure it was exhausting and annoying, but just something women faced. Early on, I assumed everyone dealt with things the same way I did. I talked about the big things, but I dealt with the little things on my own and kept them to myself. Of course there are women who can’t risk being fired from a job, held back in a career, given a lower grade, being ostracized from a community. But there are women in my position as well, who could take smaller risks, or who, years after the fact, could speak without any risk.
Why don’t they talk about it? Sadly, their reasons are a lot different from mine. Shame – as if somehow someone else’s actions bring shame upon them. Guilt – as if they did something to deserve or attract this behavior. Fear – that they wouldn’t be believed. Really? Really. Still? Still.
So please consider this. If a woman told you that she went to a job interview and a man kicked her in the shins, what would you say to her? If a woman told you that her boss routinely slapped her across the face when they crossed paths in the hallway, what would think? If a woman told you her teacher called her stupid every time she stayed behind in class to ask a question, what would you do?
Take a moment. Think about it. Those scenarios are exactly the same as sexual harassment and assault. But because those examples didn’t have any sexual overtone we don’t have any discomfort or uncertainty. We didn’t need to ask the woman what she was wearing to the interview. We didn’t ask the woman what she did to warrant being slapped. We didn’t ask the woman if she was flirting with the teacher.
We need to talk about this. Nothing will change until we do. But if we expect women to talk, we have to be prepared to listen.
Almanac
Can An Instrument Change your Life?
Can an instrument change your life?
originally posted January 16 2017
We played a show just outside of Richmond. Beautiful, big room, nice stage, good sound. Our first time playing there. The forecast called for snow and an hour before the concert started there were heavy flurries swirling in the wind.
We resigned ourselves to playing to an empty room. It happens.
But a few people came in, and then a few more, and by eight o’clock there was a small, but respectable crowd. We were relieved and incredibly appreciative of every single body in the audience. Bob Grammann and his wife Lou made the drive down. Bob is the luthier who created my amazing fretless bass. As I thanked everyone for braving the weather to be there, I pointed out and introduced Bob. “He made this beautiful bass that changed my life” I told them.
Looking at their smiling expressions I thought perhaps they believed I was being a little dramatic. It happens.
I had never planned to say that. It just came spilling out of my mouth. Was it really true? Not exaggerated nor dramatic? I’ve been thinking about it.
Since the bass is the nicest instrument I have ever owned, I felt I needed to be worthy of it. So I needed to practice playing. And since it was fretless, a new animal for me, I really needed to practice. That’s a good thing, worthwhile, but not life changing.
The tonal qualities made me want to listen more. The ‘in between note’ possibilities made me want and need to listen more. I played quietly for the first time ever. I listened to the sound my fingers made on the strings. I listened to the small changes that were possible; pitch, tone, sustain, staccato. I rested where once I might have made sound.
I listened to Aidan’s playing more. It happens. Occasionally.
Having thought about it, my playing has definitely changed. My sense of music and musicality has definitely changed. Those changes have impacted my writing. I have gained a sense of calm about performing. And of course, those things have seeped into the rest of my life.
For me it took a new instrument to make me listen more carefully. So maybe you need a new bass. Or maybe you don’t. But it could change your life. It happens.
How Painting the House Makes me a Better Human
originally posted October 25 2016
How does painting the house make me a better human?
During the three weeks that we are home in October we need to paint the outside of the house. The weather has been ideal for painting; dry, not too windy, not too warm.
We also have music to make, songs to finish. And you can guess what I would rather be doing. But, I am an adult. We start the painting.
Aidan does the big stuff. Spraying the broad sides of the house from a thirty foot ladder. I do the trim. I actually prefer that and I have a really steady hand. My plan is to coalesce song ideas while I paint, using the work as a sort of meditational backdrop.
Breathe, brush, edge.
Words are not coming.
Breathe, brush, edge.
Wasp between my eyes and the brush!
Breathe, brush, edge.
Previous night’s Presidential debate in my head.
Breathe, brush, edge.
At some point I am in the zone there is nothing but paint in a thin perfect line around the door, around the window. Minutes and hours rolls by until I am out of trim and fortunately not out of paint.
There were no lyrics, not even a couplet. No convergence of ideas, no clarity. But the house is painted. (the house is painted!) I take a shower and sit down to work. Not on a song, but a talk I’ll be giving about finding purpose in your passion. It’s something I’ve done before, but I like to change things, keep it fresh. I have been speaking lately about businessy things and it is nice to change gears.
I begin to realize I’ve had a small, slow simmer of anger just below the surface. It’s kept itself hidden while I was distracted by the beauty of nature and the joy of music. But it’s been there. And now it’s gone.
Today, tomorrow and November 9th. I have no use for anger. I will be needed. I will have a friend who is too tired to do laundry after a chemo treatment. That’s on me, not any government agency. There will be an acquaintance who is alone for a holiday and I need to invite them over for dinner. Me, not some elected official.
I will dance at the weddings of amazing couples and witness the pride of parents whose child has just graduated. Joy will not be legislated. And when someone needs help pushing their car out after a snow storm, that is not on me. Call Aidan.
I will meet folks who have had a hard week of work and need to be taken to a different place in their minds. I need to play my heart and soul out to them. I need to. I need to for them, and for me. So Aidan and I are working on two projects that we believe will let us use music as a tool for making a little corner of the world just a little better.
If the outcome of an election goes your way, or not, I promise you are needed out here in the world. Most of the work of making this place good is on us. Can we carry that weight? My shoulders feel pretty strong. I think it’s from all the painting.
The Bubble Bursts
originally posted September 9, 2016
I live in a bubble. I like my bubble. I live in the woods, I keep company with folkies and do-gooders, and intellectuals. It’s a happy place filled with positive, supportive people. Interesting folks – musicians, patrons of the arts, teachers, librarians, readers, hikers. People like you. I love the people in my bubble.
Apparently, I am not really a fan of people outside my bubble. I knew it had to happen. As the tour neared the two week mark we took some down days to write, take care of business, do laundry. And there they were. People. Just like that. From bliss to burst bubble.
People who smoke and throw their cigarette butts on my campsite; people who holler endlessly at their kids who are not listening; people who make a big campfire and leave it unattended are surrounding me. They are talking to me, these strangers, about their ailments and their disappointing relationships. They have not cleaned the lint filter in the dryer.
We sat at a picnic table to review some song ideas and play a few things we’d been neglecting. People came by. That’s okay, music attracts people. “Do you know any -insert name of current pop/country star here-?” People. They never believe me when I say no. “Sure you do, it like this.” People.
Lest you think I am simply dismayed at my own species, the geese outside the bubble are 7am honking geese.
Tomorrow we head into Topeka to perform at the Kansas State Book Festival. I look forward to being back in the bubble.
Damn Flag
Originally posted June 22 2015
I was going to avoid talking about it. I tried. I really tried.
My heart was hurting last week thinking about the shooting in Charleston. I had not begun to think about who did the shooting or why, only to think about the terrible loss. Inevitably, conversations turned to racism, gun control, metal health care. It seemed to me that these conversations happened all too quickly. Didn’t anyone need time just to grieve? Didn’t anyone need time to think and process? Apparently not as much time as I needed. So I vowed to take that time and stay out of the conversation.
It’s not that I don’t have pretty strong opinions on those subjects. You know I do. And it’s not that I don’t share those opinions easily. You know I do. But it seems that we hit the familiar arguments as some measure of protection so we can spare ourselves the hurt of discussing the individual loss of life to an act of violence. We drop into a comfort zone of those arguments we know so well that we can spout our position without thinking. I felt those victims deserved my attention- before the reasons, the preventions, the arguments, I just needed to hurt. And I did.
Then that damn flag discussion started. For the record I want that damn flag taken down. For the record I believe that there are two flag issues – the one at the State house which clearly does not represent all of the people our the state and so must come down, and the ones everywhere else (and I do mean everywhere around here) which are expressions of free speech but pretty awful speech in my opinion. But I was going to take a step back and just listen. I live in South Carolina. I have lived here for four years. I am not from here. I am not from the south. I have neighbors who fly that damn flag. There is a store nearby that sells that damn flag and “southern merchandise”. My neighbors, by the way, are nice folks. They are good, kind neighbors and I do not believe they are racists, prone to violence, or full of hate. I do believe that some folks who fly that damn flag are violent, hateful, racists. So that damn flag bothers me, makes me uncomfortable, makes me angry, makes me wonder about anyone who flies it. I’ve been told that damn flag is a symbol of southern pride and heritage. And when I say I fail to understand that reasoning, I am told that since I am not from the south, since I have no family history in the civil war, I may never understand it. Perhaps that’s true. So there I was hurting, and vowing to myself to keep my mouth shut.
I let the hurt seep in as much as I could take. We don’t spend enough time doing that, but it offers a lot of clarity. Now its time to start talking and start doing. So here is what I have to say about that damn flag. If you say you are not filled with racial bias, not hateful, why are you willing to fly a symbol of those things, knowing the pain it carries. You say it has other meaning, and perhaps it does. But it carries bias and hate also, and you know that. To those who defend it as a symbol of southern heritage and pride: if you really mean that, then why didn’t you protect that symbol from the folks who stole it and co-opted it as a symbol for hate? where were you when that flag was raised while crosses were burning? where is your outrage when that flag is waved after a hate crime is committed? Your pride seems to be limited to taking offense when someone tells you to take it down. Sorry, but you did not adequately protect your symbol. It now stands for racism and hate. You have lost that fight. And your fight was never with me, it was the hate-filled, violent, racists with whom you never really bothered to do battle. You lost. Take down your damn flag. Start with the one on the State house lawn. But let’s not stop there.
I will be talking louder and more frequently in my home state of South Carolina. I will be talking about damn flags, guns, racism. Wish me luck.
Words Matter
Words Matter.
originally posted March 26 2015
A while back this blog became infested with a ton of spam comments. So I stopped for a bit with every intention of starting again. But then there was some other shiny thing that caught my attention and the idea of writing a weekly blog just faded away. In the past month three people have mentioned my long-lapsed blog. Thank you three wonderful people. Hopefully there will be more readers, but for now, I write for the three.
I am a reader of books, a writer of lyrics. Words matter. Language matters. Please let me be right about that.
I was walking through a parking lot back to my car and passed a three year old girl. She was wearing a flowery dress, striped tights, bright sneakers. I smiled at her and that was all the invitation she needed. She wondered why I had parked so far back in the lot. I explained that I felt quite lucky to be able to enjoy the longer walk on such a beautiful day. Her expression was half smile and half disappointment as she told me that was what her mom said. Mom smiled. “Are you a hippie?” the girl asked. I laughed a little, “yes, are you?” She shrugged, “I guess.” I gave her an enthusiastic grin, “excellent!” She smiled. Mom smiled.
On the way home it occurred to me that someone had likely referred to them as hippies in derogatory way. My own definition of the term has been a little mixed, but now it has a good connotation for me. I probably would have called the girl’s parents hippies based on their attire, bumper stickers, and fondness for the back of the parking lot. I would have said it with kindness. But someone had taken that word from this young girl and given it a different meaning.
At a recent show a man introduced himself, complimented our music. He was a self-described conservative christian and he remarked that he was probably the only one in our audience. He was probably right. We had a nice chat, so many things to talk about, so much common ground. Really. Christianity was his moral compass, and that, he said, directed his conservatism. While he wanted others to follow in his beliefs, he felt strongly that loving other people with respect and without judgment was the only christian way to spread his message. He did not appreciate that his adjectives had been taken by those whose values did not include the most important christian value – love. I could relate to his feelings. There are some people who call me a liberal as if its an insult, and there are some liberals who have some of the most intolerant views I can image.
When did we start using these adjectives to label people so narrowly? How did these wonderful, descriptive words become weapons to intentionally create divisions and build stereotypes? I wanted my adjectives back. I wanted our collective speech to be more inclusive, less hateful. I want a three year old to feel good about who ever she is. I swore to undertake this in my own words and use of language.
And then, Ted Cruz announced his presidential candidacy. Why must the universe test me. Many mean-spirited, sophomoric adjectives filled my brain. They came very close to seeping from my brain through my fingertips and out into the world. They were really funny. The universe must hate me. I took a breath. I thought of my new conservative-christian friend and the three year old potential hippie. I don’t want Ted Cruz to be our next president. To be honest I would rather he was not a candidate sharing his views. I think his economic ideas are short-sighted and bad for the nation. I don’t believe he will be respected by foreign leaders. I think he will create more division among the people of our country. You see, I can use words and language to express my point of view without personally insulting anyone or labeling and stereotyping large groups of people. It is not as fun. It is not as funny. But I can work on that.
Words matter. Language matters. We need to learn how to talk with each other again. We need to take back our adjectives.
The Tao of Q
The Tao of Q (except for monkeys)
originally posted July 11 2013
Aidan doesn’t really do much electronic communication. No facebook, not big on email. So you don’t get to hear the things he has to say. You miss a lot. So here is a little bit of the Tao of Q.
When Aidan was quite young he went to the Napa County Fair. His older brothers decided to spend the day with their dad in wine country. Aidan had a fun day; rides, exhibits, arcade games. He told his brothers all about it. They said they visited their father’s client as planned, at a vineyard, with an island in a lake that had a shipwreck and monkeys. That sounded pretty amazing and Aidan felt he had made the wrong choice.
Decades later, Aidan and I took a trip to Napa and drove through the wine country. I asked for recommendations on where to drop in – smaller places, with nice people who were enthusiastic about their farms. Aidan asked if there were any vineyards with lakes, perhaps a boat. Fortunately he never asked about monkeys.
One afternoon on a dirt road we saw a very large pond out past a tasting room. There was a small island in the pond. We walked around the far side of the pond and there was a boat, a sort of Chinese junk, leaning on its side. There were no monkeys. The folks at the vineyard said the boat had been there forever, they never remembered any monkeys.
Aidan was thrilled. He called his brothers. “I found the winery with the island and the shipwreck!” They had no idea what he was talking about. “Where you guys went when I went to the Napa County Fair.” They had gone on a boring trip with their father. They had missed the fair and had made up a fun story.
You can make your beliefs happen, will your desires into existence, create your own reality. Except for monkeys.
This month our desires become reality. We hit the road for a short tour playing lots of songs from the new CD. We are performing at the places we always wanted to play. We’ll be leading some workshops. It’s going to be fun. Hard to believe we are going to make the dream our reality. But there won’t be any monkeys.
The Farmers Almanac is back
I have been busy changing the look of our web site and migrating to another host. I don’t know how to do these things. Would some one please remind me of that the next time I try do something. However, somehow I got lucky and this work in progress is actually working while in progress.
If you were a subscriber to the old blog, alas you must re-subscribe. Sorry, I just couldn’t make that part happen. I debated about moving old stuff over here. Much like real life, I was sorting and packing and getting rid of things. I chose a half dozen or so from the archives that received lots of comment and feedback. You are an interesting lot… you like the ones with no pictures. All of the marketing gurus say that’s not normal. I knew there was a reason I liked you. I’ll post those when we return home in September, or sooner if I can’t sleep for the next two nights. And then, I will start anew, with fresh ideas and stories to share. See you soon.
