Henry: Cane o Pagliaccio? o Maestro Musicale?

Henry and Farting Hedgehog

I don't know if the hairy four-legged thing that lives with me is a dog, or a clown in disguise. He is playing with Squeaky Weasel, while simultaneously stepping on Farting Hedgehog. So we have a sort of dog-toy symphony going on. ❤

Focus

 

When you've got a million things to do, but the one thing you want to focus on is the one thing that you, yourself, can't do ... what do you do? You go to a place you've never bothered to visit before.

There, on the lonely old Dade Battlefield, you hear the songs and calls of birds busily going about their day, and the insistent croaking and chirping of frogs, who know rain is a-comin'. Off in the distance, a train speeds along the prairie.

You've been listening to music on the car stereo, but today the one music that you find most calming is your own: the simple, sweet sound of hymns played on the dulcimer calms you and grounds you and focuses you.

And slowly, you begin to realize that what you most want to hear is the "live" version of the music. You want to add to the symphony of birds and frogs and distant train whistles.

And suddenly you realize that by giving in to quiet, for just that brief time, you are able to re-focus. You realize that of all the million things in your power to accomplish today, playing music was always the most important, and now it's the one thing you most desire to do.

What little time you may lose by stopping for a moment, you more than make up for by gaining focus.

A Tale of Two Athletes

I know I'll take heat from some friends, but if I can get just one person to stop and THINK, then it'll be worth it.

At the beginning of the Olympics, there was a lot of buzz about Ryan Lochte's new hair color -- light blue, according to Ryan -- and though he took some ribbing about it looking prematurely gray, it was understood that it was all in fun. Even when his hair started to turn green -- Ryan, didn’t you know that bleached hair and pool chemicals are not a good combo? -- any commentary was of the good-natured sort.

And then came the commentary on Gabby Douglas’s hair. And the commentary was decidedly NOT of the good-natured sort. She was relentlessly mocked, by a bunch of people who apparently have never broken a sweat doing anything their entire lives, let alone sweating while earning gold for gymnastics team and country. Gabby tearfully admitted that the criticism -- of not only her ‘do, but of her standing at attention without her hand over her heart at the playing of the National Anthem and of her failure to outwardly show what others deemed the “proper” amount of enthusiasm for teammates competing in the individual events -- had hurt her deeply. I read one columnist’s appeal for folks to lighten up, saying, “She’s just a kid, after all,” and what followed was a hailstorm of comments pointing out that, at 20 years old, she was no longer a kid, and that when a person chooses to live their life in the spotlight, occasionally getting bullied just comes with the territory.

But then came the revelation that Ryan Lochte’s horrifying account of having been held up at gunpoint was a total fabrication, a lie he’d told his mother to conceal having to pay for an act of vandalism after a night of clubbing and drinking. The US Olympic Committee has issued an apology to Brazil; Ryan Lochte himself has issued something of an apology, and there’s been a lot of debate as to how we’re supposed to be thinking of the whole incident, with a whole bunch of very vocal people asserting that Lochte’s “... just a kid ...” who came “to have fun” and deserves “a break.” I’ve heard this over and over again.

Ryan Lochte just turned 32 this month.

Just mull that over for a few seconds. There are so many inconsistencies I can’t possibly name them all. A 20-year-old who’s supposed to suck it up and ignore harsh criticisms of how she looks in competition and while sitting in the stands, vs. a 32-year-old who’s supposed to be given a break for a lie that brought embarrassment to an entire nation, and then, when the lie was discovered, brought embarrassment to an entirely different nation. Just mull that over.

Is it any wonder that women complain of being subjected to a greater level of criticism and scrutiny than men?

Look at this whole thing another way: Though there was talk about Ryan Lochte’s hair, how much of it constituted criticism? What would you have said about Ryan Lochte not putting his hand over his heart during the National Anthem? (Would you have jumped on him for clowning around during the Anthem at the awards ceremony?) Would you have even paid any attention to the look on Ryan Lochte’s face during a teammate’s swim? And perhaps most telling of all, how would you have reacted if Gabby Douglas and a couple of her gymnastics teammates had been out clubbing and drinking until 5:30am, period? Let alone vandalizing private property afterward. Let alone telling a whopper of a lie that got police and the IOC involved! How do you feel -- truly, how do you feel -- when the contexts of these two athletes’ stories are completely reversed?

Postscript:

I’m not judging Ryan Lochte for lying to his mom. Heck, I lied to mine a few times! None of my lies ever had the potential to get blown up to Lochte proportions, so there’s really no telling what I would have done in his shoes. Would I have told the lie to a major network’s news anchor? Would I have doggedly stuck to my story even though it was causing an international incident? Hey, maybe; I was a little scared of my parents, too. (For the record: I’m not a very good liar, and learned this early on in my relationship with my mom, so my lies to her were indeed few. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, my parents would likely have led the parade of angry critics if I’d ever been caught in a lie of such epic proportions.)

I’m certainly not judging Gabby Douglas for any of her “transgressions,” either. I’ve gone out in public with my hair looking completely unkempt, and unlike her have absolutely no excuse except pure-out laziness. I always stand at attention, though not always with my hand over my heart, at the National Anthem; I didn’t even realize that was a big deal, until someone thought it was a big enough deal to criticize Gabby Douglas for it. And hey, Gabby: smiling is not my default facial expression, either. I’ve been criticized for that one hundreds of times, though never, ever, nevereverever to the degree to which you’ve been criticized.

Goodbye to the Great Big White Cargo Van

Yesterday marked something of an “end of an era” in the life of Celtic Heritage: I said goodbye to the great big white Ford E-350 Super Duty diesel van.

The great big white cargo van that towed an Airstream trailer and transported two road warriors and one faithful canine to venues from Bangor, Maine to Waukesha, Wisconsin, from Marathon, Florida to Houston, Texas, and hundreds of other stops within that oddly-shaped quadrilateral that frames the eastern half of the United States.

It was a bittersweet parting. Emptying it out in preparation for a trade was like taking a trip down memory lane. The five-gallon bucket that held miscellaneous necessaries including a hammer, a rubber mallet, two different types of screwdrivers, 50-gallon trash bags, large clips and even larger clips, a pair of heavy-duty leather gloves, a can of WD-40, and duct tape -- several rolls of duct tape, in a couple of different colors and widths. Because you can’t say “necessary” and forget WD-40 and duct tape, the two most necessary items in the world: 1. if it doesn’t move and it should, then WD-40; and 2. if it moves and it shouldn’t, then duct tape.

Tucked away in other storage areas and odd nooks and crannies were the yards and yards of bright yellow caution tape that marked off a safety perimeter for Highland athletics ... the neon pink twine that roped off an area for the sheepherding demonstration ... the massively heavy bin containing hundreds of feet of heavy-duty extension cord -- I used to say we could run power to the Moon, with all the extension cords! The indestructably sturdy dolly (that I used to move the extension cord bin into the storage shed) ... the push pins, kept handy just in case there were a few posters that needed to be put up ... the yellow firemen’s rain slickers that sure came in handy when the weird storm hit one of our festivals. The security strap for the guitar stand -- I found it, Don! After -- how many years? -- I found it!

So many, many memories came flooding back as I emptied and then swept. Swept up dirt and dog hair. Some dirt and lots and lots of dog hair.

As I made the final climb into the big white van,

 
and took the driver’s seat for the last time,

 
then turned the key to make an unhurried drive down to Brandon (FL), I did actually feel a pang of regret. This van was purchased in 2005, after Greg and I had made the decision that, as much time as we were spending away from home and on the road, our tiny little 19-foot travel trailer just wasn’t going to cut it. We’d picked out a larger, 28-foot, Airstream, but needed a pull vehicle with enough power to haul hundreds of pounds of equipment and merchandise plus thousands of pounds of trailer, and concluded that only a diesel engine could do the work. Knowing that diesels, properly maintained, can be good for a million miles or more, Greg remarked, “This will be the last vehicle we ever have to buy.”

And that turned out to be true. Though certainly not in the way we expected.

And I was sad.

But that van took us to lots of happy adventures! To Highland Games and Renaissance Faires and State/County Fairs. Through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. To the French Quarter in New Orleans. Through Old Order Amish country and through Washington, D.C. Along the Blue Ridge Parkway and up the New York State Thruway. To Lakes Erie and Huron and Michigan and Superior. Through the Seneca Nation. To Key West and Stone Mountain and Banner Elk and Fredericksburg and the New River Gorge and Cape Cod.  To lots of Celtic Heritage festivals -- individually, about 50 of them, all told -- and to hundreds of concerts and other performances by Marcille Wallis / Marcille Wallis & Friends. Almost 200,000 miles of adventures.

So I’ll focus on the happy.

Things have shifted, slightly, for Celtic Heritage. The Airstream no longer needs to be hauled into New England or along the Great Lakes or across the mighty Mississippi. The great big white cargo van has been, for a couple of years now, “vehicular overkill,” and I’ll welcome actually being able to execute a u-turn or enter a parking garage. I’ve replaced the great big white cargo van with a smaller SUV -- still white, of course! -- that has the same basic range between fueling stops, but at a fraction of the cost to refuel. It’s a new chapter for me -- a Step Forward.

As I left the Ford dealership in my brand-spankin’-new vehicle, I paused for a few moments, to take one last long look at the great big white cargo van.

 
Step Forward.  

What Is Meant By "I'm Not Ready"

I dearly wish to know how to make people understand what is meant by "I'm not really ready for that."

It doesn't mean "I want to wallow in grief."

It doesn't mean "I want to live in the past."

It doesn't mean "I'm in denial."

It doesn't mean "I don't want to."

It doesn't mean "I'm afraid."

It isn't an invitation for you to give me a nudge, or a stern talking-to, or gentle advice. It isn't a plea for help.

It is exactly what it is: "I'm not really ready ... "

I think I'll know when I am ready, so feel free, periodically, to keep asking/suggesting. Just don't push if I say, "I'm not really ready for that." I perfectly well know that there are opportunities that may pass me by. That’s something I’m prepared to deal with.

I’ve gotten pretty good at “dealing with” stuff over the past few years.

But honestly, I’d a whole lot rather deal with the consequences of passing up on what seems -- to you -- to be a good opportunity for me, than to deal with the consequences of doing something that ran counter to my own instincts; i.e. something that I didn’t feel “ready” for.

You’ll tell me: Have I done an OK job of explaining what is meant by "I'm not really ready for that."?

Now if you could only tell me how to get the point across in 25 words or fewer ... :-)