Auspicious Signs

The New Year is starting off with a bang! While my packing up the place in Parks is going slower than planned due to the fact that I have a cold, I may already have a buyer. I also got a confirmation call this afternoon for a gig playing at an attorney’s conference in February. (Things are finally starting to move on the music performance front. Woohoo!) And, though I haven’t been working on the novel at all lately, I had a major plot breakthrough this morning. Evidently my subconscious has been toiling away on it, unbeknownst to me.

The unexpected gift from my deeper mind was particularly exciting. The two closing scenes that it delivered up to me as a sort of “mental movie” as I groggily awakened solved several character motivation problems and tied up some loose ends in continuity – no mean feat when you are dealing with beings that bend time and travel between different dimensions. I was ready to start writing immediately, but had to limit my enthusiasm to some brief outlining. Snow is expected here in the high country and I’ve got waaay too much packing and cleaning to do before I have to beat it back down to Phoenix on Friday morning to stay ahead of the approaching storm.

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Synchronicity Strikes Again

I get this funny feeling that I’m supposed to be teaching guitar in the East Valley…

Today, I went back to pick up my business cards and part of the text had been clipped off, making a reprint necessary. Okay. It meant an extra trip and I had several other stops planned for after that to deliver said new business cards, but I adjusted my plans accordingly. I was told that the reprint would be done this afternoon and to call to see if it was done.

I did. The copy center staff was busy, but another salesclerk checked and said that the cards were ready. I ignored the little voice in the back of my head that said, “You know, she might have seen the other box – the bad box – and assumed that the order was done.” I made another trip across Gilbert…

My intuition was right. The cards weren’t actually done; she had seen the misprinted box. I was polite and went out to my car to steam. I was mad at myself for not listening to my intuition and I wasn’t all that happy about the store’s lack of attention to detail, either. Alright. I decided to adjust my attitude and said to the Universe, “I’m listening. Is there something else I’m supposed to learn or do or see here?”

I looked across the parking lot and saw a sign that, given where I had parked on previous trips, I had not seen before. “MUSIC & ARTS.” Hmmm. Sounds like something worth investigating further.

What do you know? A music store – a nice, big, new one with quite a few teaching studios, too. When I walked through the door the salesperson asked what had brought me in.

“I was over at the office supply store and saw your sign. I’m a guitarist and I thought I’d take a look around,” I replied. (I like to scout things out first…)

“You don’t happen to teach do you?” she asked. No, I’m not kidding. “We really need a guitar teacher…” Those were the very words right out of her mouth not one minute after I walked in the store.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I got the tour, the details, and I’m going back to deliver a resume in a little bit. Then, it’s wait to have an interview with the manager. Keep good thoughts. I should know fairly soon, and right in time for the peak lesson signup season of December – January. (All those new Christmas guitars.)

The whole string of events that led to becoming a teacher at Gilbert Music revolved around my carrying my guitar into a coffee shop to keep it from getting too hot in the car. Conversation with one of the counter guys, a drummer, led me to Gilbert Music. That and several other strange little “coincidences” have fueled a running joke with F1 and F2 about how all I needed to do was just carry my guitar around with me everywhere and doors would open. Now, with Music & Arts, it seems that I don’t even need to carry the guitar around…

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The Dog Ate My Practice Log…

I am now a music teacher at Gilbert Music in Gilbert, Arizona.  Talk about timing – they did need another instructor, as their one classical guitar teacher is one slot shy of a full schedule.  In I walk, resume in hand…

I’ve been busy today getting all of my ducks in a row for a major promotional push. I got a local cell phone number this morning, my updated business cards are getting printed this afternoon, and I’m revamping my teaching methods and materials in light of my “Guitar Scale Meltdown” of several months ago. About all that’s left to do is get my flyer together (tonight’s big project) and then it’s pound the streets distributing them.

These days I’m practicing Christmas songs, my flamenco lesson materials, and some tunes for a new recording.  I’m back in contact with the sound engineer I worked with on the “Romanza” CD and ready to take a tour of his new studio (to me, anyway – he’s been there for several years) in another week in preparation to doing some recording in January.

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Déjá Vu All Over Again

In the words of that great sage Yogi Berra, “It’s déjá vu all over again.”

Yes, that quote was going through my head on my drive down to Sedona yesterday to see the flamenco show at Tlaquepaque. That, and all that happened a year ago and what has happened since. (A separate post with photos of the flamenco show is upcoming, as soon as I get one more name straight.)

That Yogi quote was what I whispered to F1 as we walked through the narrow corridor into Patio del Norte at Tlaquepaque last September. We could hear the music, but not see the band or dancers, for the building walls and the dense crowd blocked the view. I looked up at the large sycamore that shades a good portion of the patio and had one of the oddest psychic occurances of my life. (It ranks in the top five or six in intensity, in a life full of such events.)

It was several things at once. It was both the remembrance of a vivid dream I’d had a couple of years earlier, and, simultaneously, the vivid experience of what I had seen in that dream. I had no other phrase for what I was experiencing at that moment and would experience for several minutes thereafter than, “It’s déjá vu, all over again.” I saw the green mass of the tree itself as full of sparkling golden lights, little flickers like leaves all over it. Green and gold. Every sense was heightened and active on another level. No drugs, no bump on the head. Dream clairvoyance is not all that unusual for me, but the impact, detail, and intensity of this particular experience amazed me. Remember the future…

Other than figuring on some great music and dancing, I tried to go back this year with no expectations of anything odd or unusual. Mostly, on the drive down the switchbacks into Oak Creek Canyon, I thought about all the things that have happened in the last year. Things like how F1 and F2 moved from Parks to Phoenix, I got laid off from my web design job, and all of the odd turns that have led me back to music in a new way. (For all of my quiet reflectivity on the way down, on the way back up the rim, I was tapping out palos and hootin’ and hollerin’. What a goon.)

Other than a wonderful little synchronicity of sitting next to an outgoing woman who happens to love the Spanish guitar and has the exact favorite two pieces I do, nothing strange occurred yesterday. She just happened upon the performance while on a short stroll through the center; she stayed for two sets. I am convinced that music is magic.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this next year will be a little less tumultuous, though M keeps warning me to stay flexible and ready for anything, telling me that I’m not aware of everything that is going on, to trust, have faith, etc., etc., etc. Yeah. OK. Got that. (Right.)

Nothing weird occurred until today. This afternoon M asked me how something that happened yesterday made me feel. “Feels like home,” I replied. Then I laughed. I caught my unconscious song title reference and thought of an old blog post. I came into my office about an hour later, went online, and the weirdest thing had happened with my blog stats.

Eleven views in a row that hour, and most of them within the five to ten minute window when I was talking about the very subject with M. All different people and from four different countries. That very post. I’ve never had that many unique visitors in that length of time and certainly never a straight run like that on any one post. My average traffic is currently between three and four page views per hour, and search terms and post viewings are all over the map, just like my writing. And it’s sort of a silly little thing to start with, one that I’m surprised I even posted. (Just as I’m surprised I’m posting this…)

This stands out as truly weird.

Coincidence? You bet. “There are no such things as coincidences, but I believe anything is possible, don’t you?” (Stole that line from a little girl in my current novel. Makes me laugh every time I try to wrap my head around it.)

Afterthought: I went and checked my stats again. Get this, everything returned to normal for several hours, then during the 30 minutes it took me to write this, three more hits on the post mentioned above and no other views. I think I’m ready to start humming the Twilight Zone theme. These are all coming off search terms, too. It isn’t a link somewhere driving this traffic. Mother of the angels that watch over us (and kick our butts), have mercy. I don’t even want to talk about this with M…

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My Mission in Life

One thing about writing about personal things in a public forum – sooner or later you will have to retract something you’ve said, apologize, or otherwise eat crow…

I need to correct something I said in my last post. I did believe it was true at the time, and the realization was quite freeing, but it is inaccurate. When I said, “I was finally able to admit what it is that I miss the most about firefighting. The danger,” I was wrong.

That sentence nagged at me all day and wouldn’t let me go. True enough that I enjoyed the danger. I do miss it, and facing it did develop qualities in me that I value, but it isn’t what I miss most. It took a few hours of acute writerly discomfort before I ran smack into what it really was that I missed most. Perhaps I should have known at the ease with which the first post rolled across the keyboard that I was missing the obvious. When something means as much to me as firefighting and EMTing did, it is never that emotionally glib.

I’ve been a frequent reader over at Steve Pavlina’s blog the last few days. I was merely preparing to do the exercise he recommends in his post, “How to Discover Your Life Purpose in About 20 Minutes,” when the truth hit me. Structural collapse. A rain of metaphorical burning embers and charred trusses fell around my ears. I guess I needed the old cosmic 2″ x 6″ up along side of my head after all.

I didn’t need to do the exercise; I’ve been doing it for a year and a half. Longer, even. My personal mission went through my mind as clear as a the crack of thunder a half-mile away during the summer monsoons. “To embrace the world, sing it a lullaby, and rock it to sleep.”

As simple as that. Pavlina says that the mission that is yours will make you cry. It did. I’m still almost woozy from the impact. I know that’s it. I can look back over my life and see so many ways I’ve tried to live that out unconsciously and unknowingly. I “mother henned” my crews and trainees unmercifully at times, try as I might to moderate what I identified as “misplaced maternal instincts.”

“To embrace the world, sing it a lullaby, and rock it to sleep.”

The first part of that phrase is right out of something I told M back when I first started firefighting, that it was a way to “embrace the world,” to help whoever needed it whenever, however, without question. When the tones sound, you roll. It is called the Fire Service for a reason. The thing that gives me the shivers at the moment is that it was also during that conversation that we discussed how I was dealing with the miscarriage I had had a couple of years previous. Sometimes it is like looking into the face of Persephone to gaze into the eyes one’s own unconscious. One half the year in the world of light, the other half shrouded in darkness…

I can think of many ways that this could play out. And I know that thinking is not how it will play out. It will be in the day to day living and dying, the quiet listening to my heart at those moments when I will be tempted to take the easier road, to go back into unconsciousness and denial. On the surface it makes no sense that a childless woman of nearly 50, who wanted children and could not have them, and whose husband (now-ex) once told her she wouldn’t have been a good mother anyway, would have such a mission. M’s reply… “Who better?”

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In Uniform and Out

A couple of things happened this last week that prompted me to look back into the past with renewed interest. Friend 1 sent me a book of devotionals in an apparent “coincidence” (she had no knowledge of the role those specific devotionals once played in my life) and in my blog reading, one of my regular stops had a post about the seeming incongruity of the writer’s journey from paganism to Roman Catholicism.

The book was the same one we used to read at every lunch in the religious order I was once a part of. It brought back fond memories and resurrected lingering questions about the long, strange journey I have been on. The blog post, likewise caused me to reflect on that same time period, my choices, and where I am today, having traveled from heathen to Episcopalian to “Jubuan.”

Many years ago, in my early twenties, I was a postulant in an Anglican religious order. I loved it – the life, the work, the prayers, the people. I can still remember it like it was only yesterday. As I write this I can smell the incense, hear the singing, feel the joy I felt in taking my temporary vows, all excited to wear my habit, which as part of an active order was reserved for special occasions. I believed in the work we did and that the most important thing in life was to know and serve God.

The long line of tradition meant a lot to me, and I, in my innocence, believed that it was more than sturdy enough to hold up to scrutiny. In my thirst to know and understand, I delighted in learning more and asking questions. But I asked “too many questions,” and it would have been much easier on all concerned if those pesky little visions and psychic occurrences that have been with me all my life had simply ceased.

I still miss it sometimes, just like I miss firefighting and EMTing. It’s funny, though, the things that I miss are 1) the people, and 2) the tools. The people part is pretty self-explanatory, I think, but the other seems a little odd to me. I’ve always taken a lot of pleasure in the outer tools of my trade, whatever that happened to be at the time. I still miss my prayer book and rosary, just as I miss my fire trucks, the ambulance, my badge and blues. These days, I thoroughly enjoy my guitar and my laptop. But as much as I like the outer trappings, most of all it is the inner life that the trappings feed, support, and point towards and beyond, that I love. That has remained, despite the outward changes.

That said, I guess I’m still most comfortable in a “uniform,” even though I know that is only symbolic of how I gravitate towards collective efforts. Yet I always seem to run into trouble because of my need to speak my mind in a personal war against groupthink and narrowness. I wasted a lot of time figuring that it was my problem, that somehow there was something wrong with me because of that. I still distance myself off from groups because I do not want any more fights or disappointments. Whether or not that will always be the case, I don’t know. It’s undoubtedly one of the reasons I read about others’ winding journeys with such fascination. (I can still hope, can’t I?)

Once again I find myself on the lonesome trail, wandering and wondering. I sometimes question whether the extreme outer-directedness and the concreteness of fire service culture was not an attempt on my part to leave all the inner questions behind in a flurry of action. If it was, it certainly didn’t work. But when I really think about it, I know that it was not about leaving the questions behind as much as an effort to express my inward experiences in some outward form. And, just as in the religious order, it was a defined opportunity to serve as part of a group.

For now, the way is long hours of solitary struggle, doing art, music, writing, webwork (of both kinds!) in an attempt to put what I have seen and done and experienced, in both the outer and inner realms, into forms that can be shared with others. Agonizing. Ecstatic. Daunting, exhilarating, scary, and fun, all at the same time. Once again, my favorite Ed Abbey quote from Desert Solitaire comes to mind. “May all your trails be winding, crooked, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.” Ah yes, they have been and they have…

I find myself standing on a rocky outcrop, footsore and weary, gazing with awe and amazement, back at the trail behind, ahead to a wreath of clouds that crowns jagged, snowy peaks beyond. The trail climbs ahead higher, further, and is just as rugged, if not more so, than that which came before. Sigh. Smile. I may seem to be hoofing it alone, but I am accompanied by all of those, past, present, future, on similar journeys on similar paths, whether in a recognizable “uniform,” or just in raggedy, old, patched together traveling clothes like me. See you out there.

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Giving Up Control

I’ve had a post simmering in the background that I thought was waiting for an upcoming personal anniversary. Once again, I’ve gotten the cosmic nudge to go ahead and post something that I was hesitant about. The Universe has its ways of getting my attention and teaching me to give up control.

First, a little background before it goes up. I’ve been reading a blog called “Giving Up Control” that I came across recently while doing research on a leadership project. It’s been interesting and thought provoking, well worth reading in and of itself, but it was author Barry Brownstein’s exhortation to be a “sparkling one” in a comment that tipped the balance for me concerning my next post.

It’s also proof to me of the strange and wonderful connections that exist on that archetypal “cosmic web” that I’ve talked about before. (Note: I’m not talking about the Internet; wonderful though it is, it’s just a pale reflection.) We put our individual ideas out there and they circulate and have ripple effects that none of us can anticipate. That vast web of connections has hidden paths and unknown circuits that never cease to astound me.

Tikkun.

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Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, Your Nose…

There’s smoke in the air, drifting in from somewhere in the area, but it’s been misty most of the day and I have no idea where the smoke is originating. As a result, I’ve been antsy all afternoon. I keep getting up and going outside and looking around; I feel like I should be doing something. It’s unsettling to be under the sway of such a strong, conditioned reflex that doesn’t have a place in my life anymore. You can take the firefighter out of service, but you can’t take the service out of the firefighter, I quess.

Actually, conditions are quite good in our immediate area right now. It’s cool and there’s a northwest wind of about 5 mph, the humidity is up, and it rained at least half an inch today. While a lot of the forest is still under extreme fire danger conditions, at the moment it’s pretty safe where I’m sitting.

The synchronicity of this is rather amusing, really. For one thing, I’m in the midst of re-reading Peter Leschak’s book, “Trials by Wildfire” as an antidote to feeling like I’ve gotten out of touch with much that was beneficial from working as a firefighter and EMT, particularly his notion of the emergency services as a “warrior calling” that serves as constant reminder of the fragility of life. Amen to that.

And, just two days ago I was going through the rest of the stuff from out of the van (I’ve put it up for sale) – two storage tubs that I continually carted around full of extra first aid supplies, fire investigation gear, several different kinds of gloves, various hats, glasses, goggles, binoculars, etcetera, ad infinitum – all kinds of equipment and supplies that will not be transferred to the PT Cruiser. Sorting through all of it has served as just one more reminder of what I’ve left behind.

There’s another storm cell moving in from the west. The temperature has dropped a few more degrees and the thunder is getting louder, so we may get even more rain by tonight. I can still smell smoke, but the agitation of feeling like I need to do something about it has passed. As soon as I’ve posted this, I’m headed over to the guitar corner for another round of practice.

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My Time Management Stinks, and So Does My Compás

It’s three in the morning, again. I’m up, just like last night, trying to make progress on my music and writing. In the interim, I made a trip to Phoenix and back (300 miles round-trip, a looong drive) to squeeze in a guitar lesson. I did it on only about three hours sleep, so my concentration was less than stellar during my lesson. Lucky to have videotape… I probably should have just cancelled, but my teacher is going to be on vacation soon and I want to get a bit ahead for that. Besides, it’s part of a promise I made to myself recently to put the music first.

Compás, compás, compás. That’s my downfall lately, not just with my guitar, but life in general. Fuera compás. I seem to have stepped out of sync again, and am working to get back in rhythm. The good thing about the drive to Phoenix and back is that it has a way of clearing my head and bringing what’s really bothering me to the fore. That was certainly the case yesterday.

One thing that emerged very clearly was that my musical goals have been fuzzy at best. Yes, I’ve wanted to learn flamenco since I was a little kid, but that is still quite vague. What do you want to do, Ariel? Solo guitar? Accompany baile? Cante? How does any of this fit with the music I’ve done in the past? With the program I did at the Campus Coffee Bean two weeks ago? With what I want to do in the future? I’m putting considerable time, effort, and money into this venture… What, exactly, am I trying to accomplish? Do I even know?

These were all big questions that occupied my mind driving back up the hill to Flagstaff. It’s probably not a bad thing that I’m way behind where I wanted to be on my promo materials. This realization of my lack of clarity may well negate some of what I had planned. I was still trying to be too many different musicians…the old “Flagstaff shuffle” of play anything and everything to get whatever gig you can, which swiftly leads to mediocrity and encourages my dependency on sight-reading, among other things.

It stung a bit to realize just how much of a beginner I really am these days, how rusty, how out of step. The most important thing of all – to keep the heartbeat of the music going – and I was all over the place. Realizing that was probably the next biggest benefit of the lesson, beyond seeing my lack of focus. Reminded me of the old ambulance days, it did. It was like my teacher hooked up the twelve-lead and showed me the strip: cardiac arrhythmias. My timing stinks.

The safe thing, the easy thing, the usual thing for a has-been classical guitarist attempting to migrate to flamenco to do would be to fall back on the classical background, noodle around with lots of fancy falsetas and fake it. What I want to do is to take the harder path, to get really good at flamenco, accompany baile and cante well, to play in a band/ensemble. Then, the soloing will take care of itself. Time will tell if I’m really up for that journey.

All this thinking has made my head ache, so now it’s off to bed and then back to the practice corner in the morning, after a little sit on the zafu reflecting on all of this. Better yet, maybe I should get out the flamenco dance videos and move my sorry butt to the music. I seem to be able to find the beat with that just fine…

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Analog vs. Digital, Continued

Just for fun, here are a few of my old nature illustrations from back in the mid-eighties:

What a long, strange trip it’s been. I went from being an intern in the Exhibits department at the Museum of Arizona in Flagstaff, where I illustrated a show on cacti (where the Prickly Pear pen and ink drawing with watercolor washes originated), to doing jeep tours and working for a company in Phoenix that produced one-of-a-kind, hand-painted clothing. From there, it was back to the high country, where I got hired by a tiny startup producing interactive visitor information kiosks. They needed someone with artistic skills, but hadn’t had very good luck training geeks to be artists. They decided to find an artist and train her to be a geek.

It worked. I learned to design and program multimedia projects on Commodore Amigas, illustrating visitor guides using a palette of eight colors, four of which were reserved for the background, text and buttons. Everything was done with the most rudimentary of paint programs, using a mouse. The whole thing ended up in a free-standing kiosk with its own Amiga inside, operated by a visitor using a touchscreen.

The maximum screen resolution was 640 x 480 pixels. I look back at these, with no anti-aliasing, no PhotoShop text manipulation, nothing at all like what today’s beginner computer artist has at the flick of a stylus on a tablet, and realize they don’t look like much. For the early 1990’s, though, they were pretty cool.

Pieces from my ancient art portfolio, done for a now-defunct multimedia company…

It was a GREAT BIG DEAL when we went to a palette of 16 colors. I was ecstatic!

From there, it was on to Northern Arizona University, to work as a multimedia developer on educational software projects ranging from foreign language CD-ROMs for elementary school children (in HyperCard!) to very early web-based educational projects (mid-1990’s), like a Grand Canyon geology program for undergrads which utilized a website, companion CD-ROM, plus print materials. Does anyone still remember “Mosaic?” We were so excited when that came out.

Educational multimedia was great work, if you could stand the university bureaucracy. I couldn’t; I burned out. So what did I do? Started playing music again (the duo with the now ex-husband), then firefighting and EMTing, which is about as analog as you can get, and finally ended up back at a keyboard designing websites.

So here I am, with a checkered, and mostly out-of-date, résumé, unable to do the kind of hard, physical work I used to do, and back in love with music. I’ve got the old art tackle box out on my dining room table and artwork propped all over my living room. And, I’ve got a map, of sorts. It’s not quite as direct as dispatch saying, “Township 16N, Range 11E, Section 5, Northwest corner of the Southwest quadrant” and following the smoke, but I have this funny feeling it will eventually get me where I want to go.

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Analog vs. Digital: A Renaissance Woman in a Post-Modern World

The other night, M gave me an assignment. A simple one, really, but I had no idea what a shift would come out of it. I was getting very frustrated with my job hunt and my promotional activities and was back feeling like I was spinning my wheels. I couldn’t focus; I had lost all sense of perspective and priorities. Railing about being a Renaissance woman in a post-modern world was certainly getting me nowhere…

M: “You’re trying to do this with logic and words, which is not how your mind works best. Why don’t you “map” it, see it on the web?”

Duh. Why does he always make such perfect sense, and why do I continually miss the obvious?

So I did as he suggested. I closed my eyes and let the images form. Within a few minutes I had my map and I knew where all the things I do fit into that picture. Not that I can articulate it to someone else yet, but I knew. That’s enough for now.

That night, I went to sleep calm and relaxed. The next morning I got up and knew exactly what I needed to finish up my business cards, and within about an hour they were done. Things just “fell into place” all day long. Yesterday, I went into my office/writing room/art studio and pulled out my old art portfolio. This was a purposeful action, though not terribly conscious. Blind intuition. I really didn’t know what I was looking for or about to do, but I knew that it was a direct result of my web-map.

It had been ages since I even had looked through any of that old art work. I went through the portfolio and pulled out whatever struck my fancy and then arrayed the pieces around my living room. And I saw…

I saw the dates of the work. I saw the progression from analog to digital, from nature illustration to fibers to computer art. I saw how I had sold or given away almost all of the early hand-drawn and hand-painted work. I felt how much I missed the feel and sound of pen on paper, the smell of my Prismacolor (TM) pencils. Bet you didn’t know that they have a very distinctive smell…I nearly cried when I pulled out my old tackle box of supplies and opened the lid to the smell of wood and graphite and long ago.

Most of the afternoon was spent shooting photos, and then sorting out and selecting the best ones for my promo materials. Most of the evening, and well into the wee hours of the morning, I did pencil sketches and studies from the pictures in preparation for the self-portrait that I hope will be good enough to use in place of a photograph. I’m rusty, but you know what? It’s one more step towards integrating my art, music, and writing, and all from a simple little exercise in using my mind in its most natural way. I’m still way behind on my practicing, and I’m still a long ways from having my demos where I want them, but I’m on my way. Progress. That’s my motto right now. Just keep moving forward a little each day.

Guess I’m really just an analog girl, who knows and respects the power of the digital age in which we live. And while I am adept in the digital realm, I don’t want to lose the directness, the purity, and the sensual qualities that only come from a pencil in my hand or strings beneath my fingers. As I write this, I lift my fingers from the keyboard and look at my hands, really look. Digits, digital. [Grin.] A Renaissance woman in the post-modern world…indeed.

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Surveying the Terrain

Early this morning, it hit me what a great metaphor surveying is for this process I’m in the midst of. Run the gun, set the backsight, use repetition shots for error correction, locate the foresight, focus, shoot it, record it – I’m surveying the terrain of my life over the last forty some years and seeing things I simply didn’t notice before.

Not that the map is the terrain, but it allows me to see features in new ways and plan what to build next with detailed information and attention to the errors in previous structures. I know where the trees and the drainages are, the rock outcrops, the hookups, the obstructions, the highs, the lows. I can plan my new edifice to take advantage of the view and the natural setting, and still compensate for the deficiencies in the site.

At the decided risk of overextending the metaphor, I can build with confidence that my crew did the necessary field work this time…I want to build something that’s going to last beyond the few decades (hopefully) that I have left.

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Stunned

I keep making oblique references to a “web of circumstance and connection” that, to me, is a powerful metaphor for the course and conduct of our lives. I’m definitely going to go a little further “out on a strand” in this post. For many years, and long before the advent of the Internet, I’ve worked with impressions of a “web” both in dreams and in various trance states. The impressions are generally either visual or a strange sort of kinesthetic sense, akin to a gut-level flutter of intuition or wordless knowing. There are times “the web” appears as the archetypal “Indra’s Net,” that mythical web of light across a field of stars, at other times it is a tangled, sticky, spider web of karma that I can’t seem to get free of or a pulsing web of information that reveals things past, present or future. Then, there are the times like today when it forms itself into a mandala-like pattern of such stunning beauty and mysterious chaotic order, that there is no response but awe and gratitude.

Something was up, I knew, when I didn’t go to bed until 5:30 this morning. I know good and well that I need to structure this weekend to be ready for several days of hard physical work surveying, starting tomorrow, and still have the Friday night gig ready. It all began with cutting myself a break, having milk and cookies and watching a DVD of “Michael” at 10 o’clock last night. Just what the maggid ordered – a fun little fluff and feel-good of a movie. “All You Need Is Love! Da, da, da, da, da.” Then I started surfing the Net looking for the lyrics to a couple of the songs from the soundtrack. One thing led to another and at three in the morning, from out of left field, all that stuff from my early twenties came pouring out in the previous post. Oh, I knew there were goings on in my unconscious, but I had sense enough to just roll with it.

I finally went to bed and got a few hours sleep. I got up, set about my morning routine, all the while composing another post in my head. I’d realized that a lot of my posts create an impression of me as a very scrappy person and I wanted to clarify that. I can be when necessary, but I’m really more of a lover than a fighter. I had to train myself to fight. The words of the Andy M. Stewart tune, “Lover’s Heart” kept running through my head:

“Now a soldier’s life won’t suit me,

Sweet music is my trade,

For I’d rather melt the hardest heart,

Than pierce it with a blade…”

Right on. I started thinking about the times I’ve fought and the times I’ve backed off, the times I’ve negotiated and the times I’ve run. There was a definite pattern. Back me into a corner on something I believe in, especially if others are in danger, and I will go down fighting. I will attempt reason and persuasion first, but don’t push me to the wall or you will have a knock-down-drag-out with a lioness on your hands. There is a reason for the name. But most times, I see it coming and can find a diplomatic solution or will choose to strategically shift the battle line. Somehow, it’s the handful of fights that have found their way into these posts. I suspect I needed to see the contrast and how I have gotten stronger over the years.

For I have folded before. And, I have run. In both cases, I can now see that it was a matter of survival, of living to fight again another a day. Or, more accurately, of living to be able to play music again another day. As I looked back, I really began to wonder how I ever made it through that time between 19 and 26 years of age. The religious confusion was the least of it. A lot of that was searching for some anchor in a world that to my twenty-something self appeared to be totally threatening and out of control. My dad’s stroke and lengthy recovery, a short-lived attempt at marriage with a religious fanatic, the deaths of both of my grandfathers – my life seemed to be one emotional upheaval after another. I kept studying classical guitar, teaching, and building my musical career. I was driven. Music was my anchor. But, underneath it all, the pressure was building.

To set the scene a little better: In 1977, I was living in southern California, where I’d grown up in a little town halfway between the coast with it’s surfers and wanna be yogis, and the inland town where the then current “Grand Dragon” of the Klu Klux Klan lived. (Gives dragons a bad name, that does.) It was a volatile time in a volatile place. The nearby marine base was processing Vietnamese refugees, the “boat people.” And, as San Diego County is on the U.S./Mexico border, illegal immigration is a perennial issue. I lived at a crossroads of growth and agriculture where the Mexican nationals that came across the border in search of work and a better life were pushed into “hobo jungles” in the little canyons wedged between the remaining tomato and strawberry fields and the burgeoning housing tracts. That sort of instability and diversity scares some people, though it’s really the inequities in station and situation that should be the concern.

I was a musician. I hung out with a lot of other musicians, of a wide variety of colors, outlooks and proclivities. Neither was I shy about my feminism. But, unbeknowst to me, one of my students was a klansman. And angry. And violent. (Hmm. I think I was a little redundant there.) I had a little run-in with him and two of his friends. I was lucky; I survived. Another student of mine and his wife, a Japanese American, had an encounter with some other members of that organization, and they were not so lucky. Their bodies were found dumped in a ditch. The murder of an ex-boyfriend was the last bit of violence I could stand. I headed for the hills. I left California to settle in Flagstaff. I let my music slide, telling myself that I was more interested in other things, not admitting the pain that lay underneath my choices.

Looking back, I can understand why I developed stage fright, why John Steinbeck is my hero, why I fled the California I loved and where four generations of my family had been born and raised. What is surprising to me, though, is that it has taken me so long to see something else. I came to the mountains to heal, and I have. I’ve also regained my music. That is what I saw today on the web – the long and winding road to this point of freedom, in all it’s stark pain and terrible beauty. No wonder I haven’t known where I was going…I didn’t understand where I’d been.

I’m still a little stunned by all of it, and quite thankful to be where I am now. It puts my recent trip to Monterey in a new perspective and why I had that funny feeling of wanting to go back to California. It makes a lot more sense of my posts It’s Not the Flames That Kill You and The Night Walk. It also puts the question of whether to sell my house or not into a whole other light. It doesn’t matter. I did what I came here to do. Now, I’m free to do whatever I want, whatever else lies further down that glimmering strand on the web of possibility.

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Hold On

Getting back to blogging after about a week away…first a trip to Phoenix and then leaving my Power Book cord at my friends’ place kind of crimped my Internet activities for a few days.

It was a good trip to Phoenix – Memorial Day weekend with F1 and F2, finished up with a flamenco guitar lesson. I got some helpful pointers and corrections to what I’ve been doing, plus new material – Bulerías compás, Tangos compás, Sevillañas accompaniment, along with more Alegrías. My teacher gave me some great bar chord changes and alterations on the Alegrías, very colorful, and they are excellent stretches as well. I can take and capo them up to where I can make the reaches then start moving back a fret at a time as my left hand strengthens and limbers up. A major headache coming on in the middle of my lesson did little to dampen my enthusiasm, but I did cut my time in Phoenix shorter than planned. I intended to do some more networking while down there, but decided to go back up to the high country early and tend my aching head.

The last two times I’ve been to Phoenix, I’ve had a strange reaction upon leaving the Valley. I head north on I-17 and start to feel bummed out and depressed. It isn’t the uncertainties that I’m heading toward that are bothering me; it feels like I’m leaving something important behind, but I can’t identify what. Flagstaff doesn’t feel like home anymore, yet I don’t want to live in Phoenix. I am betwixt and between, with no idea how I can keep my place and make a living (preferably doing music) whether that be in Flagstaff, or Phoenix, or some combination of both. The Universe does not seem the least bit concerned, but I am. Despite all the years of things always working out, of intuition being vague yet ultimately spot on, I still keep looking for rational explanations and wasting inordinate amounts of time and energy trying to figure out the indecipherable.

I was preoccupied, running various scenarios through my head, as I approached Black Canyon City. The steep canyons get strong wind gusts and it’s common to see ravens playing in the air currents in that area. This time, off to my left, I saw one literally flying with his feet to the sun, almost level with the guard rail, hanging in the drafts blowing up-canyon. Given my motion relative to him, he appeared to be flying upside down and backwards! Once I got over my surprise, I heard, “You’re going about this backwards. You’re putting the wrong things first.” How much clearer of a message do I want from the Universe?

Did I stop being preoccupied upon receiving that wonderful little message from “the Is?” No. Did I pay attention to the massive bloom of matilija poppies in the median strip that I had so enjoyed on the trip down? (Large swathes of white poppies for miles along the roadside – it’s the biggest bloom I’ve seen in twenty years of living in Arizona.) Barely. I spent most of the three-hour trip back up the hill worrying and trying to figure out how I could get my place ready to put on the market, figuring that was my logical best option, even though my heart says that’s all wrong. I had myself all turned in knots – clove hitches, bowlines, and figure eights, by gosh.

To top it all off, there was a wildland fire along I-17, a little bit south of the Stoneman Lake turn-off and I was seized by the old wildland firefighting bug again. A great little afternoon fire along the highway, not over 85 degrees out, a couple of acres of PJ (pinon-juniper woodland), steep slopes but a good line around it at the top of the little canyon. Sweet. Four Type 6 engine crews from off the Prescott National Forest, a Type 1 crew (Rawhide Hotshots), and a tender. (The tender engineer had structure turnouts on – didn’t someone issue that poor boy wildland gear?) Oh man, there’s not much better than being on an engine crew on a fire like that. I topped the Mogollon Rim deriding myself for how out of shape I am and reminiscing about the “good old days,” thereby getting myself even more depressed. Good grief, someone call the “wah-ambulance.” The pity party was getting downright stifling.

Oh yeah, surrender. I forgot all about that! So, I finally prayed to God/the Universe/the Great Mystery and asked for a sign. A very clear one, too, please, as I knew I was not in a good place. About a mile down the road, I spotted the NAU billboard that reads “Hold on. You’re almost to the best part!” I burst out laughing. Certainly the cynic would say that I’ve traveled that road enough times to unconsciously know that was coming up. I tried that one out, too. Sure, but that logic does not do justice to either the feeling I got from seeing it or the hilarity I got from the Higher Power’s sense of humor! A sign, and a clear one…that’s for sure!

I haven’t been worrying since, just going about my business, doing webwork, practicing, promoting, tending to whatever needs to be done today and letting tomorrow take care of itself. I still don’t understand a lot of my reactions, I still don’t know where it’s all headed, but I’ve at least been content to put one foot in front of the other the last few days and not keep trying to bend Heaven and Earth to fit my own will and my little vision of what is possible. “Hold on,” that’s my mantra for now.

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Second Childhood

Yesterday was a busy day. I attended a concert, prepped for gigs, did some promotional work, and got my “flamenco nails” filled in. Yesterday also taught me something about how I’ve changed recently.

Who’d have thought? It seems that there is a glut of harp players in Flagstaff, at least as far as Bookman’s is concerned. So much for hiding behind the harp there. And I assumed that it was always guitar players who were a dime a dozen! It seems that the MHTP (Music for Healing and Transitions program) at Flagstaff Medical Center has been producing quite a few harpists. The booking manager said that the June schedule was already set, but he’d put me on the calendar for a weeknight in July, if I’d play guitar! Too funny. I’ll put more info here when I have it.

I’m kind of glad that it will be a guitar only gig, actually. I’m getting into the idea of returning to my first instrument and playing the pieces I wanted to play years ago. It’s also a whole lot easier to cart a guitar around then a pedal harp! I’m also progressing on my preparations for my June 8 gig at the “Campus Coffee Bean” from 8 to 10 p.m. I’m fiddling around with the sound system and memorizing repertoire as quickly as I can manage.

Margie and I went to the Indigo Girls “Honor the Earth” concert last night at the Pine Mountain Amphitheater. (Those two gals can make a lot of music with just two voices and two guitars!) It was the first time I’d been to the Amphitheater, and despite the cool springtime temps at 7,000 feet, it’s a great venue. I guess I’ve been in Flagstaff a long time. There were half a dozen people I knew within a 50 foot radius of where I was sitting out on the grass at this particular concert. So, along with getting to hear some good music for a good cause, I got to catch up with some people I hadn’t seen in a long time and let them know what I’m up to these days.

Yesterday was also “get the acrylic nails filled in” day. That’s the first time for that since I got them several weeks ago. The nail tech started asking me about my music (he knows I’m a musician, because I’m one of two different clients that only gets nails on the right hand) and we got to talking about how he’d played trumpet in high school but given it up to play sports. When I asked about what sports he’d played, it turned out that he’d gotten into martial arts. We had a conversation for the whole rest of the time about Tai Chi, Arnis, Krav Maga, Muy Thai.

It was fun finding a common interest with someone half my age in a “beauty parlor,” which is somewhere that up until recently (and then only for my art!) I wouldn’t have wanted to be caught dead in. And it was another tiny synchronicity that I’d just started back working on my Tai Chi and Arnis this past weekend as part of my renewed exercise program…

I’m surprising myself with how I’m going after gig opportunities, promoting myself, getting into conversations with strangers, being a social butterfly at the concert. That isn’t like me, or at least how I have been in recent decades. Thinking back, though, I was pretty uninhibited as a small child. My mother has reminded me before about the little girl that would flirt with everyone in the grocery checkout line, make up songs and sing them to anyone within earshot (no stage fright back then!), and who said exactly what she thought. Hmmm. Maybe there’s something to this second childhood idea.

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