jtq1844

[jtq1844]

Just because I wasn't posting doesn't mean I wasn't writing ...

Rationalization. That's all that title is. ^^^

The situation mentioned in the last post took up some time but is resolved for now.

In the meantime, I got a newspaper article posted: https://www.alisolagunanews.com/holidays-and-holy-days-whats-the-difference/

Read it. I dare you.

Then again, this week has been something, hasn't it? Did you know that little Russian children and little Chinese children are taught that the United States of America is terribly racist and terribly sexist? (Friends of mine who have "pioneered" there reported this to me.) No one dares to say it, but ... I think it's safe to say that they are not completely wrong. Why no one will say it out loud, says more about our collective denial than whether or not it is true.

There's an old Ladino proverb that goes something like this: "If one person calls you a jackass, don't worry about it. If two people call you a jackass, think about it but don't worry too much about it. If three people call you a jackass, turn around and look for a tail."

Since the middle of the 19th century, we have been in a process of what Baha'is refer to as "the destruction of the Old World Order." No one alive today knows what it is like to not be in the midst of this process, just as a fish has little concept of being in water. We are witnessing the death pangs of these world concepts that simply no longer function for us a human race. These OLD power brokers cling and claw to maintain what they think they (unjustly) deserve. It is ugly, disgusting and heart-rending.

Concurrently, we are SUPPOSED to be building a world-wide society based in spiritual principles, that are in turn fleshed out by a process of study-consultation-action-reflection based in the Baha'i Writings and guidance. God's unfolding Revelation to mankind encompasses all the religions of the past -- a topic far beyond the scope of this little blog. However, you'll have to trust me when I say:

it is real,

it is dynamic,

it is the destiny of humanity,

it is the fulfillment of the Prophecies of the Religions of the past.

It behooves you to investigate (because Jesus Christ stated that one needs to investigate such claims: "Ye shall know them by their fruits." (Matt 7:16) Yes, you have to study the Baha'i Faith either to prove it wrong or to embrace it as the fulfillment of Christ's ministry. Ignoring it is the one thing you must NOT do ... according to Jesus Christ.)

I will simply leave you with some guidance from the Baha'i cannon, Unfolding Destiny: “We must expect these things: It is becoming evident that the world is not yet through with its labour, the New Age not yet fully born, real Peace not yet right around the corner. We must have no illusions about how much depends on us and our success or failure. All humanity is disturbed and suffering and confused; we cannot expect to not be disturbed and not to suffer—but we don’t have to be confused."

It will cut.

NEXT TIME (maybe): more on the publishing process.

[jtq1844]

So much for self-discipline ...

The weekend was nice. The wedding was a delight ... but not my story to tell. Seeing old friends and holding new babies was wonderful ... from A to Z (<- an inside joke to the bride and groom). In tribute to the heritage of the of the groom's late mother, there was a Chinese Lion dance. It was spectacular to see.

I did have a pretty neat conversation about time travel stories with someone. My story "The Future Is Ours" which appeared Lose Yourself: Get Lost in the Words (Scribes Valley Publishing, 2016) was about time travel ... or rather about not time traveling. Buy the book if you want to know more. A time travel story is currently burbling about in my brain. I asked this someone if I could sort out the ideas of the story aloud for a while. He assented and immediately started mansplaining the concept. He, by the way, is not a fan of time travel stories. Disinterest or lack of information, however, does not stop a Euro-American man from mansplaining, does it? The one noteworthy contribution he made was why he's never been interested in time-traveling. Here was his reasoning: Since knowledge is generally cumulative, he wouldn't learn anything by going back in time that he couldn't pick up in the present with a little research AND that if he contributed any of his "future knowledge" to the earlier timeline, he could do irreparable damage to his current reality. Okay, not much new there. Alternatively, why travel to the future with nothing to contribute there? Your knowledge and skills at best would be dated and under-informed. Ergo, no point to going.

I did not get to begin much less elaborate on my ideas. Sigh.

Also, I predict there will be a renaissance of roadside attractions in the USA as people with need things to do while their e-vehicles are recharging. For example, Traver, CA:

I also noticed that the deeper we drove into "conversative country," the price-gouging of gas prices (in towns not just along the highways) grew, creating the self-narrative of "See, life is harder with the current powers-that-be."

Still, it was a nice weekend.

On the way home yesterday, however, I was notified of a rather alarming situation that I am not yet at liberty to make public. It will be taking up some time, a great deal of mind-power, and some serious prayer and meditation. So much for launching into the archetype musings I've been meaning to get down for ages and ages.

[jtq1844]

Looking for Patterns

Almost forty, yes, forty years ago, I hung out with some people who did research in Artificial Intelligence. I foolishly thought they were thinking along the lines of Isaac Asimov ideas. They depended on their funders to think that way ... while they worked on voice recognition, pattern-matching, and "fuzzy logic" (a loose probability theory with a feedback loop to improve the probability estimate). The frivolous sounding "Fuzzy Logic" gave way to the term machine-learning because it mimics how people learn through repetition and experience. These three general subjects are intertwined. Voice recognition requires picking up on established patterns of sound and definitions. Pattern-matching is the ability of an entity -- human or machine -- to conclude "I've seen/heard this before. I recognize this." What a machine does with that conclusion is up to its programming.

The human mind is both surprisingly similar yet infinitely different from that paradigm. It's why we see faces in electrical sockets and backs of cars -- two eyes and a mouth below. We needed that ability to discern what was running towards us. (Eyes in front -- predator; eyes on the sides -- prey.) We establish patterns.

Here is some chocolate. Chocolate has made me happy before. Yes, please, I will repeat that experience.

Our rational minds organize people patterns of great sophistication and let them coalesce into what Carl Jung referred to as archetypes. If someone says Mother or Warrior or something more modern like Astronaut, we can imagine all sorts of factoids and assumptions immediately.

The human brain is set-up to match-patterns ... and tell stories. In some ways, these two skills are two sides of the same coin. We are constantly telling ourselves stories. While brushing your teeth, you rehearse what you're planning to say to your boss. You imagine a scene -- her office? the parking lot? in the elevator? You imagine your feelings -- calm and collected? angry? nervous? You imagine her reaction -- irritated? dismissive? congratulatory? We build the story to help us think.

We make assumptions and predictions based on memory and experience then play them out on the platform of our imagination, guided by our current understanding of the situation. Really, it's pattern-matching and storytelling.

Human beings, on average, can recall strings of numerals only to about 7 digits in length. Consider phone numbers which use to get memorized all the time -- you have to care about 10 digits now. So, we start the story, "She used to live in Santa Cruz -- 831. I remember her number, 867-5309." Music, in that case, helps for sure. Our musical memory by the way is a great pattern-matching feat. (Memories associated with music are so sticky because they are "stored" in more places in the brain. They are recollected upon rehearing just a snippet more swiftly because the patterns match.)

What does this have to do with the novel-publishing journey? I can't recall at the moment. It's late and I'm on a road trip with my husband to a wedding. Hopefully, I can weave it all together tomorrow.

It might have something to do with how irritating is it to hear so much panic over AI because the average person is imagining the AI of Asimov. At this point, it's pattern-matching software and machine-learning programming. Those things would be great to remove the mundane and repetitive tasks -- the mind-numbing tasks of modern life -- freeing up time for us to create stories that matter, to inspire and support each other.

Or maybe it's just because doing a callback at the end of an essay is a good pattern I've noticed.

[jtq1844]

Nope. Not yet.

When I entered into a creative writing MFA program, no one was sure why, myself included. I do recall feeling sorry for the lonely professor and head of the program for NILA, Dr. Wayne Ude. He was tabling alone at the PNWA conference in 2015. My husband and I had moved up to Washington State as empty-nesters less than a year before and I needed to "find something to do." I was a volunteer at the conference having started volunteering a few months before at their ridiculously cute office nestled in the corner of the ridiculously adorable Gilman Village Shopping Center -- a collection of 19th century buildings moved to that location. It's more diverse than just a shopping center, but something's got to pay the bills. The folks at PNWA were hip-deep in contest and conference planning when I first walked in. That was back when paper copies were required. My task was to make sure the entries met the physical requirements for each contest (right font, right size, right labels, etc). I had a few duties at the conference at a hotel close to SEATAC but was otherwise free to frolic amongst the tablers, sellers, buyers, and really angst-ridden writers in attendance. Anyway, Dr. Ude explained the NILA program to me as he had little else to do. He could have had a fine career in sales. I started in their next term, January 2016. It was what is called a low-residency program, meeting for 10 days for many intense sessions in a beautiful setting and then continuing the classwork online. It was so interesting. Feeling like I might make friends there, I stated a little theory I had been developing. What if we looked at writing projects through the lens of "Good Writing," "Good Story," and "Good Storytelling?" Those would be tangible, albeit still somewhat subjective touchstones for evaluation. If you've ever had the honor of reading a good translation of, say, HCA's Ugly Duckling, you know it is beautifully written. I remember feeling the prickly scratch of the dry brown grass as he laid out the scene. That's good writing. The story of finding one's place in the world despite your circumstances is an important lesson for everyone to contemplate. That's good story. The ducks and swans are engaging, particularly for children. That's good storytelling.

Now, I'd noticed the stories that catch the public imagination need to excel at one of those three and be competent at another of them. My theory was that one need not be superlative at all three, just one if there was also competency in at least one of the other two categories. The third aspect could be positively "meh." Hear me out. Let's look at some (old) examples:

Joyce's Finnegan's Wake -- The WRITING is undeniably rich (Read: excellent). The STORYTELLING was memorable and provocative, but definitely not to everyone's taste. I mean, did the world really need a sitting-on-the-crapper scene? Regardless of any one person's reaction, it certainly demonstrated competency. But the STORY itself? Whoa, Nelly. Arguably, it doesn't actually exist.

Rowling's Harry Potter series -- The WRITING is, well, okay (she typed demonstrably). The STORY is the tried and true hero's tale. Nothing wrong with that. There's also nothing particularly innovative in it either. But the STORYTELLING -- ooh, the storytelling! The reader drops in the JKR's world like Harry into the pensieve. We frolicked in and dreamt about that world from Book 1.

Brown's Da Vinci Code -- That is some objectively faulty WRITING. The STORYTELLING clips along at a fair pace, competently urging the reader to keep turning pages. As cockamamie as the story is to those who know European and Church history or have ever taken Logic 101, it is one dang innovative and provocative STORY that upends most people's passively-learned Euro-Christianity tropes.

See? Be excellent in at least one and if only one, be competent in at least one other. I wasn't saying that we abandon long hours of discerning the relative merit of each point-of-view option, or all the choices thesaurus.com offers, or careful attention to the minor characters' arc, but merely that we become aware that writing fiction's prime function is to contribute to the STORYTELLING aspect of the writing project. Make sense? I think so.

It went over like a fart in church. "Ideally, you should strive for excellence in all three." Of course, but it was a theory of how we approach strengths and weaknesses, of viewing the efficacy of each technique. ... Or why mediocre or even downright crappy books can sell then our perfectly formed manuscriptions languish alone on our laptops. NILA announced its shut down suddenly four weeks into my first term there. Maybe I broke it. I dunno. The MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University-Los Angeles graciously invited the stranded students to complete their MFAs in a similar but by no means identical system. Soon, Mike and I relocated to Southern California, so it worked for me.

I tried out my Writing/Story/Storytelling theory there. Same reaction. My outlier thinking about the craft of writing was not welcome, despite Horace Mann and Abraham Lincoln's hopes for the school.

Here's the funny thing. As I learn about the writer-agent-publisher paradigm, I'm finding all sorts of pontifications online about "why some really bad novels can get published and become best-sellers (when yours languishes unread). [[try this one from Alyssa Matesic: https://youtu.be/oow7FW-1Hvo ]] What it comes down to was ... dun, dun, dun ... exactly my lonesome, abandoned theory.

[jtq1844]

What's the difference?

I read somewhere recently -- although I have no interest in vetting the information -- that about 800 new titles are released every weekday. I met a guy named Steve today who works in publishing. He corrected me. According to Steve, with the combination of traditional, self/indie, and the nebulously defined hybrid publishing paradigms, the number is now more like 4000 every day! (Indies don't have to keep bankers' hour like trads do. "Bankers' hours" -- now there's a rapidly aging phrase.)

So, in an effort to get it straight in my head, I'll just keep writing things down here until someone finds this and corrects me. It's a win-win situation: I'll get some clarity, and you'll get to feel superior for a good 5 minutes.

Traditional publishing -- It's funny that it's called "traditional" because it really only began in the 1860s or so (which doesn't seem that long ago in terms of traditions and all). Before that, the writer, like other artists, depended upon patronage to foot the bills. Once in a while, there might have been a little crowd-sourcing, but basically, it was self-publishing tied to the apron-strings of someone with deep pockets and their own overriding opinions.

Publishing houses developed as a way to facilitate book publishing without the writer being imprisoned or abandoned by the patron's whims. In exchange for the rights to the book, a publishing house foots the bill for the preparation, design, printing, marketing, and distribution of the book. The writer gets royalties AFTER the publisher recoups the costs of preparation, design, printing, marketing, and distribution ... and if the book does well, the costs of reprinting and redistributing, etc. When all is said and done, the writer gets about 10% of the price of the book when it is sold (for the first time). If the publisher gave the writer an advance, that too is made up before those royalty checks start flowin'. The publisher gets to make subsequent decisions about the book because the publisher owns the rights to it. With small presses, it behooves both the publisher and the writer to build and keep a relationship for the sake of future endeavors and profits. With larger presses, there is another layer between them -- the Literary Agent; however, that, my friends, is another post for another day (mainly because I'm just learning about them).

Self-publishing -- is just that. The writer is handles everything -- the preparation (editing mostly), design, printing, marketing and distribution. They get to keep absolute control over these processes. Whether they are any good at them is another story. They may hire people with expertise to help them of course. Mind you, once one pays all those bills and/or calculates the costs of DIY -- after all "time is money" as they say -- the author of the average self-published book makes about 10% on each book sold (the first time, and nothing after it goes to a used bookstore (in case you were confused)). E-books and print-on-demand help with that a lot, but I haven't bothered to look up any stats on that.

Hybrid-publishing -- When a group of people get frustrated with the traditional publishing paradigm and gain some understanding of each step of the self-publishing process, they do some very special machinations to create a bundle of services to offer the writer. This baby is then advertised to writers. The writer gets to keep the rights to their book but pays the hybrid publishing company for each part of this beautiful mysterious journey. Lots of aspects of this relationship can vary widely. Expertise in each step -- editing, designing, printing, marketing, distribution -- needs to be assessed somehow. On one end of the spectrum, it could be wonderfully frank, supportive, and professional -- laying out a realistic plan ... that the writer pays for. On the other end of the spectrum are the "vanity presses." No vanity press will call itself a vanity press. Yes, they offer services. Yes, the writer pays for them. The general business model is the same.

How does one tell the difference? Here are a few red flags that signal a vanity press.

They will print "anything."

They heap praise on you and your writing from Day 1 ... whether they've had time to read your book or not.

They pressure you to sign contracts quickly.

Their pricing structure is vague or full of hidden add-ons. (This is often impossible to assess early enough in the process.)

They avoid officially stating that they adhere to the standards set out by the Independent Book Publishers Association (IBPA), because they aren't concerned about that.

Once one subtracts the cost of the packaged or ala carte services from hybrid publisher from the substantially larger chunk of the sales price the writer receives, it comes down to about ... I dunno. It varies widely depending on the scamminess of the company involved.

Finding a reputable guide though this process takes detective work and research. Thank goodness bloggers about writing and publishing are always so trustworthy and accurate in their posts!

[jtq1844]

A long time ago, in a bookstore

A while back -- most of my fondest epiphanies and recollections happened there -- when I first started hanging out with writers, I remember standing in a bookstore. Being an undiagnosed ADHD-type person and an engineer, I started doing a thought experiment. I imagined hearing all the book titles calling to me at once -- this was the ADHD part of my psyche, not the engineering part -- "Read meeeeee, pleeease. Read me." My imagination can get very loud. Anyway, I imagined all these titles pleading with the customers. They represented those books that the booksellers in that location deemed worthy of shelf space, which is a fraction of the books the booksellers could have chosen. Books that a bookseller could have chosen in turn are a fraction of the titles the distribution houses offered. Those titles are a fraction of the titles being promoted to the distribution houses by all the publishing houses. Those in turn are a fraction of those books accepted for publication, which are an infinitesimally small fraction of the books being submitted to publishing houses, which is a fraction of those manuscripts that are sufficiently polished for submission to the publishing houses. Those polished manuscripts are a fraction of the manuscripts that are in the process of being polished which are, in both fact and turn, a teensy-weensy fraction of the manuscripts begun. (These are, by the way, precise engineering terms.)

"Nope, no need for me to ever write a novel." I write short stories upon occasion and figure I might continue, but there was no reason to be writing a novel.

That was years ago, before indie-publishing -- AKA self-publishing -- was as much of a thing as it is now. Yet, here I am with a novel existing on my laptop. Its (working) title is The Three and a Half Loves of MIss Lorelei Culpepper. I'm open to suggestions, but you have to read the whole thing before you get to weigh in with your opinion. Called it, called it, no changes.

Why did I do it? That will be a story for another day.

[jtq1844]

I'm ba-a-ack.

I wrote a novel. Now, what do I do?

One thing I'll do is tell you about the journey of the novel now that it's written and fairly well polished.

Another thing I'll do is use this as a writing discipline (at least for a while) since, apparently, everything hinges on having an already established following. Ya gotta start somewhere.

Maybe, I'll tell you about the novel itself. I dunno.

Since the last time I posted, my husband has had many, many trips to various medical facilities. It's been interesting, but not my story to tell ... yet. We're in negotiations. TEASER: As of a few weeks ago, the front quarter panel of his skull was made with a 3D printer. Also, our daughters and their lives are still private. So, I can't write about their (mis)adventures.

I never thought I'd be a novelist, but then again, I never thought I'd buy OluKais much less wear them everyday, or be concerned about just how many whiskers my chin can produce. Life is funny that way.

Sheesh, it's already after 5pm. I've got stuff to do. I'll write tomorrow maybe.

[jtq1844]

Thank You Notes and Take Aways

How remarkable it is to have all of this in the past already.  I do have thank you notes (and emails) to compose and send.  

From it though, I am consulting with a few people on various projects. I’m thinking about MAYBE starting a quilt.  Mostly though, I am contemplating the number of times indigenous people lamented the open and aggressive bigotry and racism being expressed in this country with more and more frequency.  Further, when they were members of the Baha’i Faith, they were additionally concerned that the Baha’i Community in the USA might not be truly equipped to respond with much more than the beautiful Words of Baha’u’llah and a great variation in individual and collective responses at the local level.

After having several days where I was only intermittently aware of the news, I have a new depth of understanding of just how ugly Americans can be in the name of “national pride.”

[jtq1844]

Unpacking #1

Miles traveled: 3,454

Mileage: 49.2 mpg (2013 Ford C-Max, yay!)

Gas costs: $321

Other expenses (excluding gifts, souvenirs and personal items): $97

I will be donating quite a bit to Bahai funds!!

Besides my hosts' generosity in sending me off with snacks, I received some lovely gifts.

Blessings.

Laundry.

Mike's surgery wound is pretty grizzly. (I'll post the picture if someone actually asks me to. Is anybody out there?) I'll get trained on wound packing tomorrow.

[jtq1844]

Heading to the Hospital

I got on the road towards Mike at the UCI Hospital in Irvine about quarter to eight. It was an awkward goodbye with Joanne, but she reminded me of this quote (maybe it is a paraphrase, I dunno): "If thine affairs do not go according to thine own wishes, be not trouble for it is of no consequence and does not matter."

On the upside, I have managed to drag myself a little further into the 21st Century by getting my phone to play podcasts through my car speakers. (It was embarrassingly simple.). I listened to a few installments from the Rainn Wilson blogcast.

FYI, here is the litany of Mike's left leg:

1) broke the ankle during the soccer season in high school ('75 or so) sawing the cast off a month early in time for hockey season.

2) a hairline fracture just above the ankle by catching a hockey puck in college ('80?)

3) bombing in Beirut, multiple pins ('83)

4) pierced during a set strike at a community theater ('87)

4) Brown's tumor burst the tibia from the inside ('97). A retiring MD asked if he could experiment on a cure (since the general prognosis was amputation). (It worked.)

5) just a little skin cancer ('15)

6) shower door came off hinges, gashing the calf (7/2/19), dubbed "healing fine" a week later, surgery 7/19/19

Men in general do not like to be referred to as delicate flowers.

Mike had already had the surgery when I arrived. He seems to be recovering fine. He'll be here until Monday or so. We've unfortunately been here multiple times in the last two and a half years. The nursing staff is uniformly kind, competent, and caring. This is a teaching hospital, so the residents may try flex their diagnostic muscles a bit. Thus, the patients and their families do need to ask many questions, particularly by advocating for the MDs to confer and consult EACH OTHER and the nurses. Western medicine's tendencies to compartmentalize and to treat only in terms of mitigating symptoms are ruining lives while lining the pockets of the pharmaceutical industry executives and investors. Those companies are fund the medical schools of this country. Small wonder consultation (or nutrition or the body-mind connection) is not promoted.

By far the most troubling aspect of becoming an expert in the workings of UCI Medical Center is the nutrition. When Mike was first coming here, the food was mediocre; the cafeteria was relatively inexpensive and equally mediocre. Ah, but the profit margin wasn't large enough. Morrison Healthcare moved in since Mike's transplant last January. The prices in the cafeteria have doubled and tripled. The cafeteria staff has been halved and instructed to refuse any substitutions or modification requests. It is what is provided for the patients that is most disturbing, perhaps criminal. Mike's "Mexican bowl" consisted of Minute Rice (or some other precooked rice-like product), canned corn, undercooked chicken, and crushed up corn chips. There is no place process for making a formal complaint that we have found yet. The doctors and nurses now urge patients' families to bring in food for them. Rest assured, the hospital says they only have to give Morrison ten more months to "work out the kinks" as one doctor put it. In the meantime, the bean-counters will see all of this as a cost savings.

Where is the healing?

Long pause.

Oh, yeah -- Happy 33rd Anniversary, Mike!

[jtq1844]

Dristle, Drostle, Droostle, Drome …

I woke to heat and time, so I lollygagged over breakfast with Joanne.  We didn’t go out because I wanted to organize my things for the talk tonight.  Still, I kept thinking, “If it is only Baha’is tonight, I should really just get them to sing and think about the rhythms of the Baha’i year as opposed to another Life After Death talk." Baha’is already know of the comforting tenet that Death is a messenger of Joy, the mere transition out of the cage of the body, the justice being resolved, so on.  

The Scottsdale Baha’i Center was about 45 minutes away in rush hour traffic and the program was to begin at 6:30. Suddenly, we were rushing.

Just a short while before I got a call from one of my daughters. Mike was going in for his regular post-transplant check-up and has been concerned about the leg wound he got on July 1. While stepping into the shower, the entire shower door came off in his hand, gashing the back of his leg. (If I wasn’t so tired I would describe the complicated health history of that poor leg.  It is quite a litany.) An infection is spreading inside the leg.  It will require surgery and IV anti-biotics.  Life on immuno-suppressed is complicated.  He went home for a few hours to rest awaiting the phone call that there would in fact have a bed at UCI Hospital for him. 

I will drive straight home tomorrow, so I cancelled stopping by what sounded like a devotional cèilidh in Desert Hot Springs, CA.  Apparently folks of all sorts turn up with poems, songs, thoughts, quotations, etc and share.

Onto the Scottsdale Baha’i Center, a beautiful building.  I bombed. It was awful.  I didn’t know that their expectation was to lead-a-discussion type of program.  I really thought I had read the room right. That was my big mistake: "I." With each encounter, it is important to ask Baha'u'llah to be in front and to move me out of the way. Had I done that? No. I announced to the audience (clearly I THOUGHT) that I felt there should be a change in program … until only one couple (the only people under 35 there besides two little kids who appeared not want to be there) sing along. Halfway through my host interrupted me and told me that the Life After Death talk was still expected.  I was so flustered.  As I regrouped (badly), I informed them that the name of my presentation was “Heaven and Hell: What a Relief.”  

Crickets. 

It became the maudlin, rambling kind of talk I strive to avoid at all costs.

How devastating.

The aftermath was a string awkward pleasantries. My host had to get home for an early medical appointment and she drove, so there you go.

What's the secular saying? "A thousand atta-boys is wiped out by a single aw-#@&+." In the Spiritual Reality which encompasses this Physical Reality, that may not be so, but tonight, it feels about right.

[jtq1844]

That’s What It’s All About ...

I was up and at ‘em even earlier and got to talk with Grandmother Irene.   The children’s class began with a local DJ, John Francisco, spinning some records.  We all danced several Navajo dances, the Hokey Pokey, and the Chicken Dance. Then came the – WAIT FOR IT! – the Electric Slide.  The camp coordinator and I showed them how it was done.  That built me some cred with a few.

The shortened classes made song-time welcomed. The 4th/5th grader classes were studying the Life of Baha’u’llah, so I taught them a quote writing while He was imprisoned in Akka.

          He hath drained to its dregs

                      the cup of sorrow,

          that all the peoples of the earth

                      may attain unto abiding joy,

          and be filled with gladness

(The melody was by Rana Lehmer-Chang of House Kombucha fame (housekombucha.com)).  They were interested in the story, sang with heart, and started drumming on the furniture.  One boy asked, “Do you supposed I could try beat-boxing?”  

“Oh, heck, yeah!” I said.

The teacher recorded it. Not bad for the first time out of the gate.

The big Pre-K/K/1st group got a song based on a poem by Gaylis Ghaderi which was based on the Baha’I Writings.  I wrote the melody which goes faster with each iteration:

     There are many ways to pray

                   and I can do them every day:

     Say the prayers written down

                   or say one of my own,

     Working to be helpful,

                   singing to be spiritual, or

     Sitting reverently

                   while others pray for me.

 After lunch and a little weaving, I had had to head out to get to Tempe. First, I stopped in the Prayer Hogan to say some prayers. I left a note for the reflection meeting:

    Strength: the loving cooperation among the teachers and staff

    Highlight: singing!  (Especially with the 4th/5th graders but don’t tell the others.)

    Improvement (to work on): Knowing when to keep my mouth shut

I also left my keyboard with them (with permission, of course). They needed it more than me.

NABI is not far from the Petrified Forest/Painted Desert National Park, so I figured it would be worth a tour and a stretch.  I could not stay long, so I walked through the visitors’ center and looked at the samples of petrified wood.  Then I remembered Grampa Hanson had a box of treasures – petrified wood, the complete clam fossil (from Wyoming), iron pyrite, etc  How lucky my brothers and sisters and I were to have a source to the wider US smack dap in the middle of our lives growing up!  It made me sentimental so I called one of my sisters. How did we survive without cell phones and Blue Tooth?

The miles rumbled by. The diversity of landscape was breathtaking – Colorado Plateau, pine forest, saguaro, and everything in between. For all those wonders, I couldn’t help but sigh to see the ubiquity of the strip malls in every town and city: Walmarts, Taco Bells, Dollar Trees (okay, sometimes they might be Dollar Stores), Pizza Huts and Starbucks. They are mostly discount places. It really brings home just how systematically the widening chasm between the haves and have-nots is created in the name of profits. The religion of materialism has reduced so many Americans to picking up the manna that is now bits of plastic and partaking in the communion of junk food and alcohol. (I'll get down off my soapbox now.)

When I finally stepped out of the car in Tempe at 7 pm, it was still over a hundred degrees F.  I met my friends who now reside in Tempe as well as a couple of their friends at the restaurant that specializes in Cornish Pasties. I had the red curry pasty with three dipping sauces. Oh, yum. So much for living simply.    

After a long heart-to-heart with Joanne, I fell asleep.

[jtq1844]

Good Morning to You, We’re All in our Places ...

I woke up fairly early and went to the prayer Hogan to find people just “finishing up.” Irene, the new friend from the evening before, explained to me the Navajo way of the prayer Hogan, to walk clockwise, to greet everyone in the Hogan by going clockwise following the Sun as it arcs across the sky. That was the lesson she taught the children at the day camp on Monday.

Breakfast is catch-as-catch-can since there were not many people there other than the staff and teens who had been there for 6 weeks already learning about how to run children’s classes, how to work with “junior youth” so they learn about building patterns of service and excellence into their lives and empowering themselves to problem-solve and consult.

Before the children gathered, I watched several vehicles drive up.  Then I remember a brief chat with NABI’s administrator the day before. Apparently, they used to have some pretty bad water there.  Recently, they drilled much deeper to the second aquafer. Now the water tastes wonderful and comes up cold.  NABI offers access to the water, up to ten gallons per day (I think).  They truly are part of the community.

The coordinator of the The camp day began with prayers and songs in Navajo.  Then I shared a couple of songs with them.  Oh, they sang!  Then I roamed between classrooms, trying to be of service.  There was a small junior youth class (11-14)  but only for those with younger siblings – accommodating a package deal if you will.   Usually I can coax people into singing but not that class.  I get it, why should they trust a stranger so immediately?

The afternoons primarily were used for Arts & Crafts or Sports, I gave a few guidelines to the younger people regarding playing my electric keyboard (Just don’t bang on it!!)  They were cooperative and lined up patiently for a turn, so I went over to the weaving table. The heat discouraged the athletes from going outside, so we painted and beaded and made what I was taught was a sgraffito  thingamabob. As others played and guided, I got a short, rich conversation with the children’s camp coordinator, a dynamic retired kindergarten teacher of African-American descent.  She had lived in San Jose but left in late 60s.  We had acquaintances in common (this is no surprise among Baha’is around the world).  Jim Jam as a young man?  Hmmm.

After clean-up and chauffeuring the children home, the teachers and staff gathered to reflect on the day.  Around the room, they go stating a strength, a highlight and something that needs improvement.  (I was relieved that the music showed up as “strengths” and “highlights.”)

Graciela had asked me to deliver some traditional medicine to a woman named Barbara who has worked on and off at NABI since the early 80s.  We walked over to the library that she opened for me.  She told me the story of NABI and its development over that decades.

I checked out a bunch of books to page through, mostly about Native American spiritually and how it fits with the Baha’i Faith.  Spoiler alert: they fit together just fine. The oneness of Religion is a central tenet of the Baha’i Faith.  This is not a loose, casual, wouldn’t-it-be-nice thing, but a serious theological discussion and that is true for all religion.  

The Grandmother Irene returned late from her medical appointment in Albuquerque-- four hours away. Mostly good news.  

Sooooo tired --

[jtq1844]

Heading to NABI and a few Surprises ...

I woke up about 1am having to use the facilities.  Ah, but which facilities to use?  The virtual chamber pot in the bathroom was an option, but then there would be follow-up tasks in the morning.  The outhouse several yards from the house?  After a ridiculous debate in my own, overtired mind, I decided on the option B. The moon was almost full, so there was plenty of light.  It was beautiful outside (after I had relieved myself).  I looked at the stars trying to break through the lingering cloud cover.  They virtually glowed with filtered moonlight.  I took me a long time to fall back asleep.  I thought about how I hoped I hadn’t offended by poo-poohing the challenges of living with no running water, no flush toilets, and limited electricity because of my Gramma and Grampa Hanson’s weird little cabin – really, a vintage camper trailer with wheels sunk into the sandy soil of the Castle Rock River Flowage. Their little piece of land was accessible only through a farmer’s property.  Said farmer occasionally would plow up the little car-worthy path whenever he had a snoot-ful and we’d find ourselves likely as not in the middle of a corn field if we arrived after dark for a visit.  I even haughtily launched into my description of the neighborhood laundry day when I lived in Tunisia when her son brought up the complication of washing clothes with a washboard.  “The house where I was living had a good -sized courtyard and a good well, so four/five families would get together to wash everything there every month or so.” I hope I was at least being entertaining, “Two people would stand far apart and twist the sheets. Then a couple of girls would scramble up to the roof and hang them over the side of the building, held in place by rocks.  There they were slapping against the sides of a building that essentially withstood daily dust storms.”  Well, I worried about offending … er, um, Native Americans? American Indians? First Nations People?  I worried about whether NABI was ACTUALLY okay with my coming. And did my friend Joanne in the Tempe find me other things to do besides Thursday at the Scottsdale Baha’i Center?  I must have slept as I woke up to daylight eventually.

Graciela cooked some elk and potatoes for breakfast.  Her son – without passing judgment – thought that was a little weird.  I was game.  Rather, it was game and I was willing to eat it.  Elk is, I dunno, elk-y.  I ate a fair bit of elk and deer as a kid with Grampa Hanson such an avid hunter.  It was okay, like a tougher version of venison which was too game-y for my childhood taste buds.  Gramma Hanson – I love you so much, but venison meatballs are just wrong.

Graciela suddenly gave me a crash course in offensive and effective hand movements just as I was leaving.  I must say that such information came in handy later in the day!

I got only a little lost trying to get back to the only road my car’s navigation software could access. The first thing I did once I had made all my phone calls – reporting my location to Mike, checking with Em how Daddy and the dogs really are, returning a phone to a friend and checking in with NABI and Joanne.   While the person who answered the phone didn’t know about me, she assured me that it would be okay.  Joanne admitted to being surprised at the tentative responses to my coming to the Mesa/Chandler/Tempe area.  People worried that I’d ruin their ongoing devotional gathering by singing too many prayers or maybe not know many prayers and turn to (dun, dun, dunnnn!) secular music. Then again, [*** jargon alert ***] the “learning site people” had no time to consider a musician coming when they had so much during a children’s camp.  (Hallooooo, how about music in the classrooms?  Or a kid’s concert?)  I was not surprised.  Such worries stem from years of musical artists not consulting with or be invited to consult with planners in time to prepare appropriate musical choices.    

The difference with me as a Musician of Service is that I really do thing that way.  “What are your goals or expectations for this event?” I habitually ask.

“Anything you do will be fine.”

“You must have some expectations or hopes?  Can you give me a time frame at least?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Okay, so I’ll do two 45-minute sets with some audience participation and some storytelling songs, ending with a rollicking gospel-style number.”

“Oh!  No, no, no.  Do you know any songs in Persian?  It should all be very reserved.  Ten minutes tops because my niece is going to play her violin.”

“Will your niece need an accompanist?  I can do that if we can get a few minutes together ahead of time.”

“No, we’ve paid her teacher to come to accompany her.”

“Okay, so I’ll stick to musical settings of the Baha’i Writings and the Persian pioneering song.”

“That sounds better.”

“Better than?” Awkward pause. “I’ll be traveling quite a distance, can I get a little gas money?”

Another awkward pause. “My cousin always does it as a service and he knows lots of Persian songs and have a karaoke machine. Why don’t you just do that?”

Sorry about that.  Too much time alone in a car I guess.

I assured Joanne that I’d be happy to just be an attendee with a guitar at the prayer circle of her friend and that we’d then have Wednesday to go to MIM.  “If NABI does need me in the kitchen, I’ll get to your place on Tuesday evening.” We liked that plan.

With all of that taken care of, I finished an audiobook entitled Last Days of Dog Town by Anita Diamant.  It was an historical fiction based on the scant public records of an impoverished village near post-revolutionary Gloucester, Massachusetts.  I liked it.  Granted there was something amusingly unbalancing in hearing New England being described as I was driving through the high desert and mesa country of the Western United States.

I got to NABI in time to walk in on [***jargon alert ***] a reflection meeting after the first day of a children’s day camp.  The coordinator introduced me as a musician of service. They were all happy to have me as a resource. Downright excited in fact.   

Now I know why nothing was quite working for Joanne!  I will be here serving at NABI for the next couple of days!  Ya Baha’ul’Abha!

“My neighbor” in the Sage Cabins who has been volunteering here for a few days is a jewelry maker.  I had to look.  I shot the rest of what I budgeted for gifts and souvenirs.  She happens to also be leaving in the morning for a medical appointment some miles away, so we thought we better settle up.  Off we went over washboard roads into the night to an ATM as she deals only in cash.  We shared stories and laughs despite her life on the Res. Words cannot express.

[jtq1844]

More of the Same ...

The Interfaith Devotional Gathering and Concert in Kit Carson Park was ill-attended, although I met a beautiful family who had driven up from Santa Fe for it.  Dad is a Native American with an artistic eye and a wicked sense of humor.  (He sat at the “children’s art table” we had set up and made doodles worth framing as we prayed and shared.)  Mom is a Columbian acupuncturist with a gorgeous voice and a lively mind. Daughter is a quiet (and perhaps disappointed in not having any option but to hang around with some old farts), artistic and quick to laugh.  She and I discovered that we had the violin and a love for the workings of an orchestra in common. The only other attendee was a free-spirited Zoroastrian Iranian artist with a lovable dog and a lot to say.  We took turns saying prayers from different Faiths, for different reasons, in different languages.  I sang and played several prayers since the sound system was set up.  We danced some Native American dances lead by Graciela and her Grandfather’s drum.  We danced some with recordings she had brought also.  

Rather than going back to the house that would be “too warm still,” Graciela suggested we go to Wendy’s for the air conditioning and the food, and a deeply personal connection for her which is not my story to tell. I talked a long while with the young woman with pink hair and a lip ring by the name of Mysteria at the register.  We talked about the need for world peace and the relative merits of “Dave’s special lemonade” until we were cut short by a customer walking in. Graciela, her son and I also conversed with a woman who came in alone.  They exchanged phone numbers and planned to meet up again in the coming week.  

A storm blew in just as we all got into the house.  I needed to bathe.  The almost finished bathroom had a tub that could drain but not much else.  So in the tub was a stool to sit upon and a large pan to put one’s feet in as one pours cans of freshly heated water over various body parts and scrubs with the aloe vera-filled, biodegradable soap.  The foot basin is there to catch the majority of the water so in can be recycled onto a tree or precious flowering plant (hence the bio-degradable soap). The screen door framed the dance of the lightning, both near and far.  Without electricity to provide back-lighting for me, I had no fear of being seen. Shampooed, scrubbed, and rinsed actually took less than two gallons of water.  The storm abated, so I took out the basin of the used water.  Just to be clear: I had my pajamas on, so I was NOT trotting about the wilderness outside of Taos naked watering plants with a basin of bath water.

I tried to get to bed early as I had to hit the road in the morning.  She gave me medicine for a friend at NABI, two left over watermelons, some cedar smudging sticks, and other oddments to deliver a people at there.

[jtq1844]

Loving Frustrations, Frustrated Dignity

San Luis Valley Colorado is the highest piece of flat in the continental US, over a mile and a half above sea level.  It is also the size of Connecticut and contains eight counties.  The population of the valley is about 45,000 total.   There are seven Baha’is.  They are all [*** jargon alert ***] isolated believers more or less.  There are communities of Amish, Mormon, and Mennonite. One of the Baha’is I didn’t meet was a man whose job is in fact driving Amish people around.  (Yes, that is what I wrote.)  I met only one other Baha’i at breakfast in downtown Alamosa, someone to whom I was to deliver a hug from Karen.  Yes, there are far too few Baha’is in the world.

At their suggestion I stopped in San Luis, the oldest town in Colorado.  It was hot, so the streets were quiet.  I walked up the elaborate Stations of the Cross there.  The plaques with Scripture from both the New and Old Testaments were well-chosen and reverently displayed. The bird crap on Pontius Pilot’s head made me laugh outright.  Serves him right!

 Otherwise, I found the statuary vaguely disturbing with their cartoonish facial features.  I am always ill-at-ease with depictions of Jesus Christ.  By the time I got to the Crucifixion I had pinpointed some of what was bothering me – the indignity of displaying a Manifestation of God almost naked, the emphasis on the cruelties.  With whom do you identify?

I continued on toward Taos. Graciela called me just as I was pulling out of my parking space. She texted me a somewhat vague description of where to meet her.  It took me an extra hour and a half to find her and her son, although I saw essentially all of Rio Grande Gorge National Park some forty miles away in the meantime. We were all a little frustrated, but got over it quickly.

I found my stomach turning as I later saw some of the fancy parts of Taos.  The chasm between the haves and have-nots of Taos!  The poverty here is overwhelming. The tourist prices are everywhere and the Native Americans have no options other than ready-to-turn produce and subsidized services run by churches and government designed to keep the poor poor.  

Graciela started building her house with hay bails and adobe in the 90s.  It is outhouse-and-rainwater-collection living. They use a small generator for electricity in the evenings.  She sells medicinal soap, cedar smudge bundles, and other things. Her son sells beautiful hand-made jewelry here now to help his mother after a stroke, sacrificing his better opportunities in other places.  Any money she makes usually goes to feed and clothe others in more need. She is Chichimeca, but offered me an Ojibwa meal – fish and rice -- in honor of my husband’s maternal grandfather who was forcibly adopted into a French-Canadian family somewhere around the turn of the last century.

The Taos Pueblo Pow-Wow was going this weekend.  Graciela was instrumental in starting it back in the early 80s at the suggestion of Rúhíyyih Khánum .  She was tired from a day of selling soap in the heavy winds of the Rio Grande Gorge at the del Norte rest stop a few miles North of Taos adding, “It’s too expensive to park now … besides, the other Baha’is here are there.”  

[jtq1844]

Leaving the Greater Denver Area

I had slept badly. It wasn’t anxiety.  It could have been the lovely little 72% chocolate bar Barbara had left on my pillow that I could resist any longer.  Barbara let me know that I could just come back to rest after the morning interfaith devotional.  That made the mad scramble to get ready and make it to the home of her friend Karen simpler. 

What a great group of strong women! Karen, the hostess, and I had decided to center the devotions around “in memorium.” Each one had a chance to tell a story or two about someone they wanted to remember (or three or four or five in one person’s case). We lit a candles and read from a variety of Scriptures for many Faiths. Karen prepared such a lovely environment.  I sang songs and prayers appropriate to the occasion. Then, there was a lovely brunch and lively conversation that was meaningful and witty in turns.  

I was still restuffing my car when everyone else had left.  I used it as an opportunity to spend a little more time with Karen. There are people in this world that you know are an honor simply to meet them.  Karen is one of those people.  Aside from her insights and wit, she had a fascinating childhood and a inspiring take on it.  You see, when she was 5-years-old, her parents [*** jargon alert ***]  declared their faith in Baha’u’llah and decided to move to Ecuador as pioneers.  Not only was she thrown into a different world and a different faith, but was also being parented by two people who were also just as befuddled.  When I get frustrated with other Baha’is or discouraged by my own imperfections as a Baha’i, I wonder “How is this transforming message for the whole world  going to succeed with such idiots delivering and implementing it?”  Karen reminded me that that is precisely the proof that it is divine in nature.

 Love the creatures for the sake of God and not for themselves. You will never become angry or impatient if you love them for the sake of God. Humanity is not perfect. There are imperfections in every human being, and you will always become unhappy if you look toward the people themselves. But if you look toward God, you will love them and be kind to them, for the world of God is the world of perfection and complete mercy. Therefore, do not look at the shortcomings of anybody; see with the sight of forgiveness. The imperfect eye beholds imperfections. The eye that covers faults looks toward the Creator of souls. He created them, trains and provides for them, endows them with capacity and life, sight and hearing; therefore, they are the signs of His grandeur. You must love and be kind to everybody, care for the poor, protect the weak, heal the sick, teach and educate the ignorant. -- 'Abdu'l-Baha, The Promulgation of Universal Peace, p. 9

We chatted far too long, so I didn’t get back to Barbara’s to pack up till after 4pm.  No nap for this li’l chatterbox.  I was heading south to Monte Vista through Friday evening get-away traffic and the Colorado Springs rush hour.

I arrived hours later than I had planned, but the grace and humor with which I was welcomed was touching. My hosts for the evening were yet another set of grandparents, Cheryl and Steve, whose number I had gotten from Pam of Pam and John fame back in Grand Junction.  “My” room and bath were resort quality.  We talked far past Steve’s bedtime apparently.  Another heart-to-heart treat!