The (deep, dark) secret life of a folk singer
originally posted Sunday, March 31, 2019
Here, and in my monthly newsletter, I like to share little snippets of our music-making, traveling life. You all seem to enjoy a glimpse of what its like on tour when we are not actually performing… the places we visit, the people we meet. Even the home life looks different when you’ve been gone for two months, so that is also a good place to mine secrets to share. I try to focus on the good stuff and the funny stuff in part because it is who I am, and in part because I want to bring good, funny, stuff into your lives. I don’t share the dark matter. It feels so much like complaining and I have nothing to complain about. Our lives are rich with friends, deep in support, and filled with joy we have done little to earn.
But if I never talk about it, who will? So here goes: Health Insurance. Something has to change. Soon. I promise I will not takes sides, politicize, or tell you what to think. But I hope you will read through this in its entirety to vicariously experience the current health insurance market for self-employed persons. I am going to share too much personal financial and health information. That makes me uncomfortable. But we need to talk about this. We need to talk in real terms. I keep reading commentary about hypothetical people – faceless, nameless, statistical amalgamations of people whose theoretical lives are nothing like mine. We are real human beings working for a living and literally becoming afraid for our lives.
We had a good year. We made money. Tours were successful. Merchandise was sold. All the little music-related things we do on the side happened. A lot of luck and a lot of kindness were sent our way. We are middle class Americans. Yay! Confetti should be falling from the sky. That’s the goal right? That’s not only the dream but also the expectation of working people contributing to the community/state/nation. But before you do your happy dance for us, please keep reading. (Actually, I will not stand in the way of a happy dance. We are happy. Dance away and then continue).
Last year the United States considered an annual income of $16,460 to be the upper limit of poverty for a family of two people. In order to qualify for the sliding scale of health insurance tax credit one must earn less than 400% of the poverty line. $65,840. That is pre-tax income, before any personal deductions. Seems fair to me. We did that. We did that writing and playing music. Cue confetti. So we purchase our own health insurance. Our annual health insurance premium is $20,938. Really. Yes, really. Did you see all that confetti get sucked into a black hole? Approximately 30% of our pre-tax, pre-personal deduction income goes to insurance. We pay federal and state income taxes as well as social security after that. Could you live on what’s left?
A little background might be in order. In our state there is one company that offers individual medical insurance. One. At a glance it looks like there are others, but they are only for groups, individuals who get a federal subsidy credit, or for things like medicare supplements or very short term policies. So we went to the one company. They have a variety of plans and we do not have the cheapest one. Ours offers a no-copay annual exam, some preventive coverage, and has a deductible less than $1000. The cheapest plan would have cost us about $17,000 but would have had a $14,000 deductible and higher co-pays. We could have chosen that and saved some cash, but it did not a good financial risk for the savings.
We could have gone with out insurance. If you have had any medical servicees please take a look at your explanation of benefits and observe their cost. Not the amount you or your insurer paid, but the actual cost of service. For example, in our area a scheduled, non-emergency MRI costs $1911 plus the cost of the doctor who recommends it and the doctor that reads it. It adds up fast, and that’s just little diagnostic stuff, not an actual injury. Despite the fact that I have never been hospitalized or seriously ill, that I take no prescription medications, that I have never used my insurance for anything other than wellness and preventive care, I chose the responsible thing. I don’t have the right to share the other half’s medical history, but he is very healthy. Still, we decided not to risk financial ruin over a health issue. I can’t say how long we will be able to make that decision.
Just a bit more background. According to the South Carolina Department of Insurance in 2017 our insurer collected $2,254,056,331 in annual premiums. They covered 499,520 people. Their market share in health coverage is 68%. These numbers include medicare supplement plans, short-term plans, etc. Trust me, they are the only writer of individual comprehensive medical coverage here. I include these numbers because with such a large amount of premium coming from our state, we the people of South Carolina and our representatives should have a lot of influence on the company. Over 2 billion dollars a year paid to this company should buy us some consideration. Ironically, the opposite is true.
Stay with me. That’s the end of the numbers. What I want to share is this: we followed the rules. We behaved responsibly. Before venturing out as full time musicians we lived a very small, frugal life. We paid off all of our debts. We put away a small nest egg so that we might retire someday. We put aside enough to cover our deductibles and emergencies. We pay our premiums. We will continue to do so. We can live on what is left. It isn’t easy, but we can do it and be happy doing it. Really, this is happy dance time for us. For now. It is easier for us because we love our work, we are healthy, and because we have you out there cheering us on and feeding us and letting us do laundry. I cannot imagine how the average self-employed working family can cope. And it looks like it might get worse.
Please share this if you feel it will help start a meaning full conversation. Link to this blog or paste into wherever you paste things. Please feel free to use my name, tag me on social media. Please don’t shout at each other. We need to talk about this. I believe it starts with sharing our honest numbers, our real, personal stories. So I’ve shared my story. What’s yours? We need to talk about who we are as a nation and who we want to be going forward.
Category: From the Vault
We Survived Snowmageddon
We Survived Snowmageddon
originally posted December 13, 2018
We survived, but are irrevocably changed.
I know that some reading this are from the north, the mid-west or higher altitudes. Have a good laugh at our 6” of snow that will be gone in a few days. But our weather can be a challenge. We often have rain mixed in with our snow so there may be layers of ice. And our road will never be plowed.
Storm prep here is a little different. We don’t stock up on milk, bread and eggs. Although I did bake some bread. We fill jugs with water because we have a well and if the power goes out there is no water. We grind coffee in case the power goes out. We load firewood onto the porch where it will stay dry and in easy reach. We bring wine upstairs and birdseed too. We harvest anything we don’t think will survive, charge our phones, and make a list of things to do while stranded.
We ( actually just one of we) made some rookie mistakes.
My boots are in the basement. The basement is only accessible by going outside and around the house. We should have put some of the water into the refrigerator to help maintain the temperature in there. Though I enjoy cooking on the wood stove, prep by candle light is not fun. We had rain, frozen rain and finally snow – none of my winter greens will survive that. My list of things to do included too many that require electricity.
That last item was disappointing. I thought it would be great to really, really clean the house. No power means no vacuuming, no running water. I dusted and swept thoroughly but it was not satisfying. I thought we could learn some songs, but without power we couldn’t listen to CDs. The sad list goes on. We have books, and scrabble, and instruments. When the threat of falling branches seems clear we can wander in the wood. I typically crave those activities, but now they seem like unproductive punishment compared to my fabulous list. I also began to wonder what you were doing. Yes, you. All of you. Was it snowing where you were? Were your dogs running about in it? What were you reading? What were you eating?
It turns out that I can withstand physical longings and moderate discomforts or inconveniences quite well. I am a wimp at the emotional ones and I’m kind of needy. When, exactly, did that happen? I haven’t had a TV in over a decade. I loved being alone, could spend a day reading, forget to eat, realize I hadn’t left the house in days. But this year, even more than previous years, I have spent a lot of time with you. I have become accustom to having dinner with you before a show and to having conversations over breakfast. You check in on email and other e-things. We meet sometimes on the road just to say hello. And sure, I have always like those things. In moderation. But something strange is happening.
I’ll be vacuuming if anyone needs me.
The Kids Are Alright
The Kids Are Alright
originally posted June 23 2018
We are just home from our summer reading kick-off tour. After the first couple of shows I found myself singing that song from The Who. I’ve never really known the lyrics other than ‘the kids are alright’ so I looked them up. They are weird. It’s not at all what I thought it was about, if I even gave it any thought. Forget all that, just focus on that one line.
This was our first tour with the kids songs, playing to young readers mostly aged 6-9. We were more than worried. We were terrified. First, we were fearful for our own well being. Kids are honest. Brutally honest. What if they didn’t like us? What if they didn’t like the songs? What if they weren’t interested in the books we chose? Second, but way more important, we were fearful for their well being. What if they didn’t like us or the songs and we turned them off reading.
If our Read, Love Grow project is new to you here’s the short version of the back story: One lovely morning over coffee Aidan read that the for-profit prison industry uses the illiteracy of eleven year olds to determine the number of prison beds they will need in fifteen years. We clean up coffee. We cursed evil businesses. We cried. And then, we set aside our anger, our disgust, our heartbreak and got to work. If that research is what an industry bases its profit on, it’s probably accurate data. If they can use it, so can we. And we didn’t have to pay for it. There are a dozen other statistics that link reading at grade level by grade five to long term improvement in life. So we wrote songs inspired by ten amazing children’s books. Some of our generous, supportive friends and fans helped us pay for the recording, mixing and production of a CD called “Tell Me A Story” We developed a program to present these songs to kids as a way of encouraging them to read. We leave a CD or two with each library or location we visit.
In June we played for hundreds of kids across four states. We will continue to visit libraries, camps, schools, and after school programs talking to young readers about books that we enjoyed and sharing with them the process of using a book as inspiration for songs. If that sounds familiar, it’s because that is very similar to shows we do for grown-ups. But with the kids we also read a bit of a few of the books aloud. We ask them how they feel about the situations and characters in the books or what they think might happen. They sing. They dance. They ask a lot of questions.
A shout out to the librarians and library staff. They put out the books and authors that we referenced. They create comfortable spaces for the kids to listen and move around. They have programs like reading aloud to a dog to build reader confidence. One librarian told me that on rainy summer days they create “reading caves” from chairs and tables and blankets. The summer reading programs offer prizes (but of course the real prize is reading).
The accompanying adults were also pretty terrific; counselors who made up dance moves and a bus driver that helped us get the kids talking. And then there was the grandfather, who held the hand of the only brown child in the room and listened carefully as I talked about Marion Anderson. He smiled and nodded approvingly when I simply said she wasn’t allowed to sing at certain places because of the way she looked.
Much to our joy and relief the kids seemed to like us and the songs. They expressed an interest in reading. The young folks we met were incredibly smart, very engaged and willing to participate. They know that insects have six legs and spiders have eight. Not only did they ask about the harmonica and the capos and the tuner, they also listened intently to the explanations (even the Aidan-style lengthy detailed answers). They spoke in turn (mostly), listened to each other (mostly) and shared interesting comments and observations.
At the very first show a young girl told me that if I like “Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus” there were a whole lot of other pigeon books I should read. Later someone suggested a Peter Seeger song. There were white-skinned, blue-eyed boys who were happy we sang in Spanish because they are learning Spanish. An avid reader with dyslexia told us that there are great audio books available for young readers. A group of kids serenaded us with “You Are My Sunshine” – it was adorable, but grown ups, please please teach your kids a happier song. And at the last show the last of a hundred questions was “why are CDs round?” Aidan offered a detailed, technical answer. They listened, asking some follow-up questions. One young boy laughed and asked me “what if CDs were square. I laughed and said it would be weird. But once the giggling stopped one young girl raised a hand. “Maybe a square CD only seems weird because we are used to them being round. If they had been square that would seem normal.” It silenced us. All of us. Aidan explained disruptive thinking to this group of 6-9 year olds. He told them how bold thinking led to inventions and big changes in the way the world worked.
Yeah, the kids are alright. Really alright. I hope they stay that way.
Let’s Talk About It
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.
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.