Category: Farm Filosophy

Be Careful When You Clean Your Office

Sub titled: What I learned in the song circle.

I’ve been cleaning my office. On the surface it already appears tidy. I have a small table that serves as a desk. No drawers, no where to hide anything, so that helps. I have some papers in folders. Behind a curtain there is one drawer, one basket and three shelves. How bad could it get? And so I never feel like I need to deal with it. I moved into this office four years ago. It has never been organized, de-cluttered, sorted. Never.

I dove into what should be an hour-long task. Have you done this? Why didn’t anyone warn me? Each folder, each pile was a geologic era to be studied. After a short while I decided that this egozoic era was not worth study. I piled paper into two stacks. One can be re-used, writing on the back, the other recycled. Done.

But before that moment of revelation, I found pages from various song writing circles. Our typed song lyrics which had been handed out to a circle of listeners. Fellow writers had critiqued our first, or second drafts and offered thoughtful comments. Often I had highlighted those comments which were the most useful and helpful in rewriting and crafting the songs. They fell into just a few categories.

Overwhelmingly the most frequent and most useful was a simple line through a word. Redundant, excessive, superfluous, extra. I’m a word hog. After years of seeing this same edit, I continue to hoard words in my first drafts, but I have learned to self edit by the second edition. The second most frequent was a mixing of tenses. Verbs morphed from past to present to future. Occasionally I forced a rhyme and slightly more frequently forced a rhythm, choosing a word simply because it fit the meter. Finally, from time to time, I was lazy with my word choice. It was interesting to see the evidence across a half-dozen year time line. I committed them to the scrap-paper heap and moved on. But they lingered in my mind, which refuses to be organized or de-cluttered.

Our habits are telling. I’m convinced that they spill over into many aspects of our being. Extra words. Why? To fill the space. No doubt that is the reason for me. A word on every beat, because otherwise there is silence. I’m a writer, an absence of words is an absence of me. But it is not. The work is a combination of the sounds and the silence. I know that. I know both have power, more together. But apparently I needed reminding. A lot of reminding. My recent work shows that I recognized this and have become capable of self-editing that vice. In songwriting. What about the other aspects of my life? Where else am I excessive, what am I hoarding? Where else do I fear being erased?

Which brings us to tenses. Past. Present. Future. Do I co-mingle those outside a song? Forget that the past is done and try to drag it into the present? Do I obsess about the future while the present slips by? A quick scan of a page shows me if I’ve done that lyrically. But I don’t have a behavioral critique circle. Oh. Yes. I definitely do. Perhaps they could write out polite suggestions that I could read later. It worked for songwriting.

Forcing rhyme and rhythm. Choosing an easy word. Those are both symptoms. They are some combination of laziness and conformity. I don’t like that description. I don’t want to be lazy or settled into a conforming to a routine. But clearly I do want those things sometimes. Often enough to form a pattern of criticism. Comfort zone is aptly named. Of course there is nothing wrong with seeking comfort in familiar things. Until it becomes defining and confining, an excuse for not taking a risk or making the effort. And there it is again, art imitating life.

Hopefully when I check in with myself in the next decade I will have learned to self-edit some of these bad habits. What part of me will be turned over and re-used and what will end up in the rubbish bin?

Hope Is Not Just That Thing With Feathers

If you are like me you hear the words “hope is” and immediately your brain fills in the rest:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in your soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

But hope isn’t that. Not always. It isn’t etheral. It isn’t some mysterious constant. It isn’t even optimistic.

Hope is trial and error
Sweat and deep concentration
A knowing that better things lie ahead
Despite the current frustration

I’m no Emily Dickinson. But my version is truer for me, although less beautiful. Hope doesn’t just come. We call it into being, create it, nurture it, work at it. And thank goodness hope isn’t just the thing with feathers because my wings have been clipped. We can’t travel, our shows have been cancelled months ahead. So I hope.

I hope that in this strange period of tumultous quiet we discover the things that really matter to us and what we can let go of. I hope that we learn we can do with less. I hope that our pace slows a bit so we can experience each moment. I hope that my beloved local shops and retaurants have survived, that the small bookstore still thrives, that good coffee and good cheese are still being made by hand. I hope we deeply miss our friends and are reminded how important they are. I hope we recognize that there are a lot of people out there who are friends we haven’t me yet and we value them as well. I hope, that on the other end of this, the habit of listening to music together in a room hasn’t been supplanted by some lesser substitute.

By hope, I mean that I have a knowing that these things will be true if I try, if I work hard enough to sweat and challenge my thinking. My energy will change the trajectory. Here’s what that looks like.

When we begin to leave the house again, I will support small business over larger ones even if it means less choices and more dollars. That is the right choice and the right choice isn’t always the easiest choice. I will make that a habit, and when the wider world opens up I won’t break that habit. When the small town I am in is your town, not mine, you will have to guide me so be ready to recommend coffee shops, bookstores, and more.

I will commit to seasonal eating where possible to sustain a local food supply and yes that means I don’t get everything I want when I want it. Of course I won’t suspend my joy, there will be indulgences, but they will be savored. And I am sure there will be new joyful indulgences discovered in this process. I’ll get by with less, won’t be wasteful, so that I have more to give and more to put away for a small emergency.

I will campaign for people, support issues more than ever. Because we can’t do this alone, we have to work together to make our changes more permanent. I will be paying attention to the details, the systematic steps that are taken by our communities and lawmakers. We have witnessed how vulnerable our policies make our people and we cannot willingly allow that to go on.

And when the wider world opens again, I will gasp in its splendor, every mile of it. We’ll hit the road and sing with more heartfelt emotion than we knew possible. We will relish telling our stories and hearing yours. But it can’t go back to business as what was once usual. My community of artists, writers, and musicians suffered. Hard. We need a better model. I am going to hope for that. And Hope is not just a thing with feathers.

Theoretical Asparagus

Four years ago when we were building our house I planted asparagus. The plumbing wasn’t in yet. The electric wasn’t in yet. But I convinced Aidan that the most important thing for us to do was to build two contained beds in which to plant asparagus.

I’d never planted asparagus before. The first year, asparagus tips emerge and the enthusiastic gardener must summon all of their strength to leave them be. No harvesting in year one. Strength must go ointo the root system. Year two, allows for 25% of the yield to be harvest, year three 50% and finally, eating at will. I stood on the muddy hill in front of the shell of a house and imagined myself eating asparagus straight out of the garden one day. Today I’m eating asparagus.

That first planting was a commitment to staying in this one place for at least four years. I’d never made that commitment before. I was commiting not only to a house, but to this small street. Which meant I had to decide to get to know my neighbors. This had always been an easy thing, but now it was a more difficult commitment. When I get home from six weeks on the road I don’t want to see anyone. Ever again. Usually by the time that feeling passes we are loading the car again. But now, we would arrive home, and check in, ask after, engage in social conversation. Four years in I can report that that phrase “by the time that feeling passes” is self-fulfilling mythology. The longer one waits to re-engage in community, the longer it takes for that feeling to pass. A couple days of self-care before diving back in is really much easier in the long run.

Planting asparagus also meant commiting to my town. It meant having a beer at the local brewery, eating at the local cafe, and buying a book from the local book shop. Those things are completely and totally enjoyable, but I had always let them happen. Or not. Often a couple of weeks would go by before I supported my community. I have great excuses for letting that happen. Town isn’t really nearby, its a fifteen minute drive. That’s real time and fossil fuel I save by staying home. And dollars, hard earned folk musician dollars, are saved by eating and drinking at home. But the asparagus had been planted, the commitment made. So off to town we went. By design.

We sought out people and places that we liked and cared about, we participated, good grief we even joined a civic group and we show up at meetings once in a while. We decided that there was tangible value to be a part of this community. And so we budgeted in the time and resources, with intent. Fours years in I can report that the value of my community outweighs the dollars, and in fact it really didn’t cost more dollars.

Maybe you aren’t a gardener. Maybe you don’t have space for asparagus. Maybe (gasp) you don’t even like asparagus. But you should plant some, theoretically. Stand on your muddy hillside and imagine what it could be in four years. Commit to it without immediate reward. Decide that it matters.