The Writer's View, 3Dec19

For some reason that still puzzles me, I signed up for, and participated in, a book-writers' boot-camp this summer.  The two dudes who ran it promised that if you did the exercises and activities when, and as, they described them, you would end up with a true first draft of a book by the end of four 8-hour days of constant writing.  Apparently, I thought the nudge would be worth it, and so I sent in my (non-refundable) full tuition payment, made my airline, hotel and rental car reservations, and cleared my calendar.  

I didn't enjoy the process, because I hate feeling pushed, and that's exactly what they did. The entire program was delineated into 6-minute increments.  Six minutes to brainstorm possible titles. (There was a little bit of guidance on the types of titles that generally are picked up by bookstore buyers, and by consumers.)  Six minutes to describe everything you know about, even stuff you don't think matters.  Six minutes to define your target audience.  Six minutes to come up with five chapter headings. And so on, ad nauseum.  And it did, indeed, work. 

One of the things about the week that I enjoyed was getting an increased awareness of the breadth and depth of stories I have in my own personal history. We all do, if we're paying any attention to the moments and interactions of our days. One of the leaders talked about his own process of practicing his story-capturing skills by challenging himself to write a story every single day and publishing them all on a blog.  By the time he stopped his daily activity, he'd written and published (if writing on a blog is publishing, which it is, sort of) 646 days straight.  Granted, they aren't all riveting and mind-expanding, but they are stories of his daily life, and remembrances of childhood that could be used to illustrate a point.  

One of the questions 'up' for me right now is how to mentally think about individuals who, for no apparent reason, walk out of my life. When asked about their departure, there are no hard feelings, and nothing is amiss. It's just over. They feel like they've changed. The whole conundrum does leave me puzzled though. And it reminds me of a story.  

On the first night my taiji group was in Fiji, the locals welcomed us to the island with sweet-smelling Plumeria leis and a welcoming ceremony. The younger women danced a stylized, formal dance while the men played drums, and some of the older women prepared this milky white beverage that was served to us in coconut shells, family style.  All the tourists who wished to drink this beverage were encouraged to do so.  It tasted like I imagine dirty socks would.  Fortunately, it didn't smell like them.

Several days later, I was sitting on top of a picnic table at dusk, after a long day of strenuous taiji practice, enjoying the night sounds of the insects, the sights of the fruit bats flying low, and sounds and scents of the waves crashing on the rocky beach. A couple local men who served as security guards for the small resort stopped by the table to make small talk. We talked about the weather and the beauty of their island, both of which were glorious. I asked them about the welcoming ceremony. The older man replied that it wasn't made up for the tourists, that it was used by the locals to include the tourists in their extended family for the duration of their visit for their safety and protection, and then, after the tourists had gone home, the locals did a second ceremony to remove the tourists from their protection.  

I wonder what sort of disconnection ceremony I might do for this one who has walked out of my life, and I wonder what impact that might have?  I'll have to give that some thought. 

Just Be There - 22Jan19

I had the luxury of traveling away from my present hometown for a quick 36-hour trip to take care of a little business and visit with two friends that I hadn't seen in 15+ years (other than on FaceBook). Fifteen+ years ago, we spent a fair bit of time together several times a month, and then life happened, people moved away, interests changed, people just did 'people stuff', and life moved on.  We stayed tangentially connected because of social media, which sometimes feels more intimate than it actually is.  Sometimes it does serve a degree of intimacy.

With one friend, it was a treat to be able to sit face-to-face sharing a meal of good Tex-Mex and just catch up.  We'd talked for well over an hour, suddenly noticing how easily we fell back into that camaraderie that we used to share, and took completely for granted. So many stories we re-told, and so many were left unspoken.

With the other friend, we sat in her living room, in adjacent comfy chairs with her cats exploring as they chose, and the same magic happened.  Real people, real life, real stuff.  Clearly time had passed, but it was an illusion that the passing of time made any difference at all.  What a joy.

Then later in the day, I was in the airport terminal having a lovely meal before heading out and I watched the people walking by.  Since I used to live in this town, part of me wondered if I'd see anyone I recognized.  No, and that was OK.  

There was one young couple that caught my attention for several minutes, he was leaving and she was not.  She did the obligatory recording of him waving goodbye, interrupted by a farewell kiss and hug, she watched him as he made his way through the security checkpoint.  Who sang the song, about it being easier to be the one leaving than the one left behind? I'm sure I could find out, if it mattered enough.

Maybe that's what we are here to do.  Just be there. Be present and support each other in any way we can. That's quite a good gig.

En-Chanting 3Aug11

Tonight they opened Tucson Global Chant with a chant I haven't heard since my dear friend Joni and I spent 9 glorious days in a chanting experiential workshop with Jonathan Goldman at Sunrise Ranch (somewhere in Colorado) more than a boat-load of years ago.  It went:

"Listen, Listen, Listen to my heart song, (2X)

I will never forget you, I will never forsake you."(2X)

Joni may still recall the melody.  I didn't, until a half second after the hundred of us who were present started singing it and then the whole experience flooded back in. 

It's hard to describe the feeling of it, but it was like being inside the songs, inside the chants for hours at a time.  We'd come up for air, herbal teas, water and healthy snacks, ravenous because we'd been so actively working the sounds and working ourselves with and through the sounds, and then we'd submerge again and not come up for air until lunch time and then we'd do it again in the afternoon.  We all came home hoarse from singing so much and with smiles bigger than Texas because we'd had such a tremendously glorious time.

The workshop was my first introduction to toning (singing tones, mostly vowels) with different parts of my head, as well as deep-throat singing, which I did kind-of, sort-of, manage to make one rumbly-ish sound that came from deeper in my throat than my vocal chords.  Most of the folks who perfected that technique rather massacred their voices for normal toning, singing and conversation, so I didn't really need to be expert at it.  The toning with different parts of my head was interesting because by vibrating different parts of my sinus, the long 'e' was best for this and at a higher pitch, I sometimes could get multiple tones (on purpose) at the same time.  Something about vibrating the different resonance cavities in my face and neck, I don't pretend to understand the physics of it.

Towards the end of the workshop we had one day where the entire day was spent in silence, other than toning.  It was quite a trippy high, undoubtedly endorphins were through the roof.  I continued to hear/feel/experience the toning and chanting as I went to sleep that night.  Reminiscent of the way the leaders end the Global Chant here, stating they will be chanting in their dreams and inviting us to join them. 

The last session of the workshop, we all sang "listen to my heart song" to each other and that experience did bond us all together.  I've lost touch with most of that group (there were 85 of us there that summer), but I'm still connected, in the best possible way, through our heart song.