Fall reflections...

It's October 1 - plenty of changes in the fall air...

A little known fact about me is that I have had an oldish Oscar Schmidt autoharp in my closet for about a decade. It's had a couple buzzing keys, and it was a pain in the nether-regions to tune (there are thirty-six strings to tune!), so other than using it for a couple of kids' sermons in the 1999-2001 period, I never really pulled it out much.

But something stirred in me when I found out about the Champaign-Urbana Folk & Roots Festival, and the fact that a couple ladies were going to be doing an intro-to-autoharp session. I also was astounded to find out that fully chromatic tuners are available pretty cheaply (thus easing the whole tuning-nightmare issue). They are basically a pocket-sized electronic gauge that shows whether a given note is sharp or flat). You pluck C-sharp, and if it's flat, the little red "flat" light shows, and a dial shows how far off you are. If it's flat enough, it shows up as C; you tune it up, it switches to C#. They've had them for guitars for years - but I'd never known they had them fully-chromatic for instruments like the autoharp. Pretty damn amazing....

It also turns out one of the ladies doing the workshop is actually involved in recovery in a nearby town, so we have a double connection. She's quite an enthusiast, and renewed a long-submerged desire to sing and play. She is also experienced in autoharp maintenance and repair - so she should be able to help me fix my buzzing keys. So I'm pretty excited about getting back into some kind of folk music again.

There was also a session by the C/U Storytelling Guild - a dozen or so folks doing storytelling in the area. This is another area that I'd never thought I'd get back into - frankly, I never was that good at it, especially since a large portion of the stories I told had been lifted from other tellers. But their story examples gave me some inspiration - so we'll see. I'm good when it comes to starting stuff - not so hot about follow-through...

This weekend is the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, TN. I remember being appalled at how the weekend price had grown from $60-70 to $160 a person (and then reflected that I'd spent $50 a ticket to go to a Supercross race in Indianapolis, which was basically only 8 hours). So my attitude about Jonesborough has changed - although it probably won't happen next year, either - our travel budget will be stretched anyway because of the AA 75th-anniversary international conference in San Antonio next July.

I'd like to try it out on Chris at a couple smaller festivals first - I heard that the Fox Valley Folk Music and Storytelling Festival is a pretty good festival in the western Chicago suburbs (Geneva, IL) over Labor Day weekend. (I'm kicking myself about not knowing about the 2009 FV festival - Pete Seeger's sister, Peggy Seeger, did a workshop there!).

This weekend was also saying farewell to Chris' Yamaha WR426 enduro/dirt bike. We had tried a number of different riding areas, trying to get Chris up-to-snuff to get back into amateur motocross again, but Chris never really felt comfortable enough to do the kind of riding he needed to do. And any riding area for enduro/woods riding were an hour east, or two hours west. So he put it up for sale - and after a dozen false leads (including a couple different scams, and an offer to trade it for a set of AR-15 assault rifles!) he finally found a buyer from Chicago who came down to get it on Sunday.

Sunday night, seeing the dirt-bike riding away on someone else's trailer, was kind of a melancholy evening for Chris. For quite a while, he'd had the dream of winning one more race, even in the "seniors division," so this was a little bit of an end-of-the-era for him. But he's much more comfortable on his mountain bike (bicycle, not motorcycle), and he enjoys the exercise on that so much more. So he'll continue to do that at nearby Kickapoo State Park, and do some road-rides out in the corn-n-beans around Urbana.

And we had to postpone our trip to Kansas - we had put off getting our motel rooms to stay, not aware that this weekend is NASCAR weekend in the KC area. Every motel room in the area - even as far away as Liberty, MO - had their prices doubled. And while I love the folks in KC, the idea of paying $106 a night for a Motel 6 (!) was more than I could handle. So we've rescheduled for Oct 16-18, and will look forward to seeing folks then.

For now, I need to get things wrapped up at work, and get ready to have an enjoyable weekend. And, perhaps, more than one post a month here in the blogging world...

Alive and well...

Storytelling is alive and well!
Gather 'round people, and listen for a spell,
I've got stories and fables and tales to tell!

Listen to each story with imagination -
The stories you hear will be your own creation!
Storytelling is alive and well!

(as heard from Heather Forest, a long time ago)

Starting tonight, I imagine the traffic this weekend will be considerably heavier along Interstates 81 and 26, headed toward Jonesborough, Tennessee. Friday marks the kickoff of the 38th annual National Storytelling Festival in and around historic Jonesborough.

A dozen huge tents will be erected across town - with names like "Tent on the Hill" and "The Railroad Tent" - that will hold anywhere from 250 to 1,000 people. Every shop and vendor in Jonesborough will have warm cider, fresh donuts, homemade candy, and every kind of comfort food available all along the "downtown" area. for the throngs of people (usually upwards of 10,000) who flock from around the country to the Festival.

Friday night will kick off with an "olio," a kind of storyteller's sampler to give everyone a taste of what's ahead. Then on Saturday the storyteller's lineup will rotate between tents all over town, giving people a smorgasbord of amazing imagery, music, even dance. Saturday night will have the traditional Ghost Story Concert and the more recent Midnight Cabaret (for more "adult" themes). Sunday will be Sacred Storytelling - with open "swappin' grounds," storytelling areas for anyone who wants to sign up. There will be pure performance pieces, participation stories, and every kind of storytelling experience one can imagine.

Several of my all-time favorite storytellers - including preacher/storyteller Donald Davis, singer-storyteller John McCutcheon, Kathryn Tucker Windham and cowboy poet Waddie Mitchell - will be in the line-up. And the weather promises to be perfect festival weather - highs in the upper 60's to low 70's, overnight lows in the 40's, and blessedly clear skies. It should be a beautiful weekend for it.

Do I regret not being there? A little - Chris and I talked about going some year in the future, when things aren't quite so up in the air (although I think that $2.50 gas prices to make it economical have gone the way of once upon a time...). The problem is that the tickets have gotten up to $135 a person for the weekend - much cheaper than a big-name concert (especially on a per-hour basis) but a good-sized investment. That, plus hotel and food, plus gas for the 11-hour-each-way trip just wasn't going to make it in the budget this year.

Still, the idea of the drive through the changing colors, the drive in from hotels in Johnson City, and the smell of Krispy Kremes (the official corporate sponsor of the festival) wafting over the main streets of Jonesborough bring back the kinds of memories that just don't fade. So sometime this weekend, Chris and I will listen to The Storytellers version of "No News (or, What Killed The Dawg)," Gamble Rogers' infamous story "War Bunny" and Ed Stivender's classic retelling of Adam and Eve's story, and maybe even have a mug of warm spiced cider and donuts - and dream of October weekends stuffed, pressed-down and overflowing with stories.

To all the folks at the National Storytelling Network (formerly the National Association for the Preservation and Perpetuation of Storytelling, or NAPPS), to all the tellers, and to children of every age who come to Jonesborough with wide eyes and open hearts: all my best to you.

Perceiving the Godhead

If one man calls you an ass, pay him no mind. If two men call you an ass, pay them no mind. If three men call you an ass, get yourself a saddle. (anonymous)

It's saddle time.

For 20 months, the theme of my team at work has been, "Hang on, it will get better." Over and over again, the message has been, "If you just hold on, things will get stable, and life will be good." And oh, I held on, because I had already been through hell, and I was looking forward to a taste of heaven - or at least, a lukewarm Purgatory...

However, in the last 3 months, the message has changed, and become loud and clear: "If you'll just hold on until things get stable, we'll finally be ready to outsource your job to India. Let us just flog you until this work becomes predictable and repetitive, and then we'll push you out of the airlock in your underwear."

The Mumbai folks have landed. (Bombay, for those of you who have been asleep for a couple years.) Hail, Elbonia...

The Greek chorus that lives in my head has been particularly active in the last two days. The principal themes have been

- How could you be so dumb - again - to buy into the "it'll get better" lie?
- This isn't the first time you've been shown this - or the 15th, for that matter. What personal perversion of yours keeps you in denial until you can hear pebbles tumbling into the abyss?
- Despite all the good things you've done here, why the hell do you still feel like you've failed here?

and the classic, loud solo voice, which has been taking a cadenza above the rest of the background chorus:

What the hell are you going to have to do to not end up here, again?

I'm struggling with all kinds of emotions, too.

Embarrassment - I've known better. Others have gotten out before this, and sounded happy. How come you haven't?

Fear - of rejection, of failure, of ending up in a place like this again. (After all, my best judgment got me here...) But most of all, of not being able to support myself and my family.

Resentment - at the Evil Empire, for leading us on, for using us like a cheap blow-up doll and throwing us away. And at myself, for allowing myself to be led on, and for finding denial such a comfortable place to live. At wasted chances, and the seeming waste of two years.

Regret - this opportunity looked so good, going in. Why couldn't it have turned out less bad than this?

The tragic part is, I heard this story twenty years ago at the National Storytelling Festival. It took Googling the title to remember that it was told by Gayle Ross, and this may not be the best rendition of it. But even back then, in my impaired state, I understood that there was a fundamental message for me in this story.

Sadly, there still is.

A young monk, studying in a mountain temple, was called by the Great and Wise Master, and told that his time of study has come to an end. "Now is the time," said the Master, "when you must carry your learnings into the world, that it might become a better place."

"I will give you a gift," the Master continued, "contained in these few words: If you will perceive the Godhead in everyone, and everything, with which you come in contact, the path you walk will be a safe one." Then smiling and bowing, the Great and Wise Master led the student to the door of the mountain temple, gently pushed him out, and closed the door behind him.

As the young man walked down the mountain, he reveled in the freshness of the air, the sunlight upon his skin, and the gift the Great and Wise Master had given him. In the beauty of the trees, in the warm glow of the sun, in the twittering of the birds, he could perceive the Godhead in everyone and everything - and he felt safe, secure, and cared-for.

As he approached a village, he saw people running in terror. "Run away! Run away! An elephant has gone mad, and is rampaging in the village! He has demolished shops and homes, and he will destroy us all!"

Remembering his Master's words, he stopped the runners, gathered them together, and spoke to them, kindly and lovingly, about the power of perceiving the Godhead in all of creation - even the mad elephant. "If you can but perceive the Godhead in everyone and everything," the student assured them, "the path you walk will be a safe one."

But terror was within them, and they rushed off, calling frantically for the student to do the same. Calmly, serenely, sure of himself and his protection, he proceeded down the road into the village.

As he came onto the main street of the village, he saw the elephant as it was completing the demolition of a villager's home. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Yet as the elephant turned to face him, the student drew on all his training and his inner resources, and perceived the Godhead in the mighty beast as bands of rainbow colors emanating from his body.

The elephant started to walk slowly toward him.

Focusing every bit of spiritual energy within him, the student perceived the Godhead in this immense animal as clouds of beautiful, rainbow butterflies swirling in joy and beauty about the mighty head of the elephant.

The elephant continued on toward him.

And then, on a more personal level, the student perceived the Godhead in this mighty elephant...as it trampled him into the ground.

...later, as he awoke in the hospital...

As the student opened his swollen, bruised eyes, he vaguely perceived the image of the Great and Wise Master, sitting in the chair beside his hospital bed, with an air of concern and yet bemusement on his face. The student was instantly furious, and cried out, "You LIED to me, O supposedly Great and Wise Master!! You told me, If you will perceive the Godhead in everyone, and everything, with which you come in contact, the path you walk will be a safe one." Now look at me!! Look at how your great gift has destroyed me!"

"My boy," the Master said, with a sad smile, "it is not the gift that is flawed, but your hearing of it. It is an eternal truth that If you will perceive the Godhead in everyone, and everything, with which you come in contact, the path you walk will be a safe one."

"But my son," the Master asked sadly, "How is it that you failed to perceive the Godhead in those who told you to stay the hell away from the elephant?"

A late Christmas story...

Yes, I know what the date is.

Yes, I know that according to the Revised Common Lectionary, we are at the Second Sunday in Epiphany. We can't talk about Christmas, for cryin' out loud, right?

Well, for all of you who find such violations of the "church calendar" heretical, I have three words: get over it.

In following a couple blog-bunny-trails from penni/martha's blog, I found Sister Mary Martha's post about spiders at Christmas, and I felt (for whatever cornball reason) compelled to share this story. I don't remember who told it first, or last, for that matter. But while I certainly loathe spiders (certainly on the top-20 list of everyday things I loathe), I do enjoy telling this particular story about one particularly generous spider. I guess I enjoy it because the theme is a recurring one in my life - one's ugliness and self-revulsion, overcome by the gifts one offers to the Savior. So, Sister, I offer you...

The Spider's Christmas Gift
In a barn in a distant village, there once lived a spider. He was well-liked by all the other creatures who lived in the barn, for he had a good and loving heart. But one day, after a rainstorm, he chanced to see his reflection in a puddle of rain-water. He could not see himself as the other animals saw him, but instead he saw only a multitude of skinny, hairy legs and a heavy, misshapen body.

Despising his appearance, he climbed up into the very highest rafters of the barn and hid himself away, determined not to inflict his ugliness on the other animals, lest they tease or reject him. The only thing he did to pass the time was weave intricate and beautiful webs out of gossamer threads, and hang them from the barn's roof beams. Sometimes, on humid mornings when the dew was heavy, these delicate artworks would gather drops of dew, reflecting the early morning sun.

The barn animals would be amazed at their beauty, and call out in joy to the artist. But the spider was ashamed, thinking only of his appearance, and could not hear their words of praise. So he hid in the dark recesses of the rafters until night-time, when he could continue his weavings in solitude and anonymity.

One cold night, the doors to the stable flew open, and in came a man, and his wife who was heavy with child. It soon was obvious that the time had come for the child to be born, but there was no place for these two travelers among the rest of the humans, so they had been exiled out with the animals in the stable.

The woman gave birth; the newborn baby was wrapped in rough swaddling clothes and was laid in a bed made out of the hay in the feed-trough. Star-light from heaven shone on the Child, showing him to be a gift from Heaven sent to that lowly place.

It was soon clear that the baby, though healthy, was extremely cold. Yet neither the parents nor any of the animals in the barn could help - there were no blankets or other cloths left to use, and none of the animals could give of their fur to help the shivering Child. Each of the creatures cried, whinnied, bleated and neighed, "Who can comfort this heaven-sent Child?"

From his vantage point in the rafters, the spider was given a wonderful idea. He raced from rafter to rafter, gathering all the beautiful webs hanging from the roof-beams, and stitching them together, layer after layer after layer of intricate web.

The products of year after year of the spider's work were woven together, until they formed a wondrously white blanket. And on a gossamer thread, the spider lowered the blanket down onto the manger and the baby. The holy Child's shivering ceased, and the grateful Mother smiled her thanks. "Thank you for your blessed gift, dear spider! May your weavings continue so long as the sun rises, o shy one, and may your threads never run out!"

Later, shepherds and wise men arrived bearings gifts - but the first gift to the Christ-child was given by one who felt himself unworthy to be seen.

Thus it is (to this very day) that some cultures consider spiders to be a sign of luck or blessing at Christmas, and we remember the spider's gift with shiny gossamer strands on our Christmas trees.

I understand that the original story may be Polish or eastern European in origin. If nothing else, it's a great story of sharing the gifts that one has been given - another constant theme in my own life...

[back into Marty McFly's theological DeLorean, to take you back to your regular liturgical season...]