A lot of people feel dwarfed and terrified at the vastness of space. The immensity, the mind-blowing ancientness, the scale . . . like we're microscopic specs of dust on a grain of sand in an ocean bigger than anything we can imagine. The fact that, on a cosmic timeline, we humans occupy only a small portion of the last hour of the last day, makes some folks feel insignificant and worthless.
And I guess I understand that, but I have never, ever felt that way.
We are made of stardust; the carbon in our bones, the iron in our blood, everything that makes us was once part of a living star, or many stars. We are the way the stars have learned to express themselves.
If the Universe is a great mind, then we are thoughts in that mind made flesh; we are a way for the Universal Mind to experience and express emotions, ideas, and creativity. And if indeed our own Universe is a bubble in a much larger ocean of universes, the Multiverse, then we are part of something so vast and grand that we may never know the whole of it. This is a Mystery we can sink our teeth into! This is the definition of "awesome."
But awe and fear are incompatible. Why fear something of which we are small but intensely magical parts? That would be like my fingers fearing my hand, or my eyes fearing my head. We are creatures who have evolved as life-forms on the surface of a planet orbiting a star in the Milky Way, which is part of a larger group of galaxies that forms part of the great network of stars, planets, dark matter, dust, asteroids, ice, gasses, and things we can't possibly imagine, in our home Universe, which is a bubble in the great ocean of the Multiverse. We're all connected to each other, and to everything else--physically, spiritually, energetically and emotionally. What is there to fear when everything, everywhere and every time is home?
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
The Gods in Your Backyard
I've been doing a lot of reading lately, and we all know where that leads . . . Oh yes, to a lot of thinking. I'm still, after all these years, trying to figure out where I fit in the greater scheme of things. Am I Witch, Druid, Shaman, Something Else? Am I a musician first or Neo-Pagan first, or does that even matter?
I recently re-read Margot Adler's famous and revolutionary tome, Drawing Down the Moon, and found myself plagued by many familiar issues. Even that far-reaching survey of the very oddest Pagan corners of our big round world didn't seem to have a Gayla-shaped space in it.
It's at times like this when I remember things my dad and I used to talk about. He was the first person I ever heard use the word "Druid" to describe himself. And he was quite right, it fit him perfectly. We used to walk out in the forest together, often in silence, but sometimes deep in conversation. And I remember one time talking about religion and relevance. The Universe changes constantly, and humans change constantly. The forces that we actualize and anthropomorphize and call gods in order to explain what is going on with the world change constantly, too. Once, everything was a god, because we understood so little. As we began to understand more about our world and the Universe it lives in, we needed fewer and fewer gods. But our need to connect with our planet, our community, our tribe, our home, is now just as deep and strong as it was when we lived in caves as hunter-gatherers.
In my own mind, I fully understood, even as a teenager, that the Universe is a single Divine Mind, much bigger, grander and weirder than we can ever know. And intuitively, I understood the human need to personify forces to be the Divine Mind trying to communicate with us, trying to explain that we have always been part of itself; our consciousness is not only connected to it, not only part of it, but is in fact the whole of it. We are all made up of the same stuff the stars are made of, so why shouldn't our consciousness come from the Divine Mind as well? And wouldn't that Divine Mind make every effort to talk to each person in a way that they would embrace and understand, simply in the interest of efficiency?
As we have come to understand so much more about the world we live on, we need Divine Mind to talk to us in a different way. We don't need the reassurance that the Sun will return after the winter Solstice, because we know that the whole reason for the Sun appearing to move in the sky is that the Earth is tilted in relation to its orbit around the Sun. But the need to celebrate that fact, to connect with that fact, is no less powerful than it was when we thought the Sun might not come back if we didn't pretty the place up a bit and maybe sacrifice a critter or two. Many gods have been invented over the centuries to both explain and fulfill this human longing for connection to something mysterious and incomprehensible.
But, as my dad pointed out to me, he and I didn't live in pre-Christian Ireland, or ancient Egypt, or pagan Rome, or in Babylon, and we certainly weren't lost in a desert unless it was a metaphorical one. We were, and are, humans alive in the twenty-first century on a continent that none of those cultures even knew about, in a country that didn't even exist until a couple hundred years ago. History and mythology should enlighten, enrich and inform us, but we need to build relationships with the gods in our backyards, and worship where we are now. Divine Mind is still talking to us, still reminding us that we're part of all of it. Instead of trying to filter everything through ancient mythologies that we cannot possibly hope to truly internalize, we need to be meeting the Divine here and now.
Gods, goddesses, avatars, elementals, guardians and other spirits from our deep spiritual past are our greatest teachers and mentors, and their ways and wisdom are well heeded. They can instruct us and show us the way, but we are responsible for walking it. The ancestors created their cosmology and their rituals based on the world they knew, which was a vastly different world than the one we know. We are responsible for creating new cosmology and ritual in harmony with this world, here and now. Our children and their children, if the human race survives what it is doing to itself, will be responsible for using our knowledge and wisdom to create cosmology and ritual that serves the world they will create. And that is a mystery well worth celebrating.
I recently re-read Margot Adler's famous and revolutionary tome, Drawing Down the Moon, and found myself plagued by many familiar issues. Even that far-reaching survey of the very oddest Pagan corners of our big round world didn't seem to have a Gayla-shaped space in it.
It's at times like this when I remember things my dad and I used to talk about. He was the first person I ever heard use the word "Druid" to describe himself. And he was quite right, it fit him perfectly. We used to walk out in the forest together, often in silence, but sometimes deep in conversation. And I remember one time talking about religion and relevance. The Universe changes constantly, and humans change constantly. The forces that we actualize and anthropomorphize and call gods in order to explain what is going on with the world change constantly, too. Once, everything was a god, because we understood so little. As we began to understand more about our world and the Universe it lives in, we needed fewer and fewer gods. But our need to connect with our planet, our community, our tribe, our home, is now just as deep and strong as it was when we lived in caves as hunter-gatherers.
In my own mind, I fully understood, even as a teenager, that the Universe is a single Divine Mind, much bigger, grander and weirder than we can ever know. And intuitively, I understood the human need to personify forces to be the Divine Mind trying to communicate with us, trying to explain that we have always been part of itself; our consciousness is not only connected to it, not only part of it, but is in fact the whole of it. We are all made up of the same stuff the stars are made of, so why shouldn't our consciousness come from the Divine Mind as well? And wouldn't that Divine Mind make every effort to talk to each person in a way that they would embrace and understand, simply in the interest of efficiency?
As we have come to understand so much more about the world we live on, we need Divine Mind to talk to us in a different way. We don't need the reassurance that the Sun will return after the winter Solstice, because we know that the whole reason for the Sun appearing to move in the sky is that the Earth is tilted in relation to its orbit around the Sun. But the need to celebrate that fact, to connect with that fact, is no less powerful than it was when we thought the Sun might not come back if we didn't pretty the place up a bit and maybe sacrifice a critter or two. Many gods have been invented over the centuries to both explain and fulfill this human longing for connection to something mysterious and incomprehensible.
But, as my dad pointed out to me, he and I didn't live in pre-Christian Ireland, or ancient Egypt, or pagan Rome, or in Babylon, and we certainly weren't lost in a desert unless it was a metaphorical one. We were, and are, humans alive in the twenty-first century on a continent that none of those cultures even knew about, in a country that didn't even exist until a couple hundred years ago. History and mythology should enlighten, enrich and inform us, but we need to build relationships with the gods in our backyards, and worship where we are now. Divine Mind is still talking to us, still reminding us that we're part of all of it. Instead of trying to filter everything through ancient mythologies that we cannot possibly hope to truly internalize, we need to be meeting the Divine here and now.
Gods, goddesses, avatars, elementals, guardians and other spirits from our deep spiritual past are our greatest teachers and mentors, and their ways and wisdom are well heeded. They can instruct us and show us the way, but we are responsible for walking it. The ancestors created their cosmology and their rituals based on the world they knew, which was a vastly different world than the one we know. We are responsible for creating new cosmology and ritual in harmony with this world, here and now. Our children and their children, if the human race survives what it is doing to itself, will be responsible for using our knowledge and wisdom to create cosmology and ritual that serves the world they will create. And that is a mystery well worth celebrating.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
More than words can say
Musicians bond with each other deeply, sometimes instantly. It happens because our neural networks synchronize when we play together. No really, it's a science thing, they've documented it, look it up. So because our brains start grooving together when we play together, we get deeply lodged in each other's heads and hearts.
And sometimes a musician, say a mandolin player just for example, happens to also be a fantastically good person who practices deep compassion and kindness, who inspires everyone around him to be kinder to each other, to play more and better music, and to live gently and love everybody. A family starts to grow up around such a person, based on that whole synchronized neural network and heart combo platter thing. Everybody adores everybody, because the dominant vibe is love--love of music, love for each other, love for the audience, for the place, for the time. Life gets so good. It's beautiful and magical and precious.
Then that mandolin player finds out that he's got cancer, so his musical family, which by now is HUGE, gathers around him and says "We're gonna do whatever it takes to keep you around because the music and the love and the vibe are too good to let go, and we love you like lightning loves thunder, do you understand?" So everybody gets together and raises a bunch of money, treatment is given, and the mandolin player gets better and all is well.
Until the leukemia happens. And then it just hurts and hurts and hurts. The family gathers around the mandolin player again, but this time everybody feels helpless and scared and utterly bereft. But they hold him tight, and they check on each other, and they say "I love you" to everybody so many times it seems unreal, but because of him every time they say it, it means more than it did the last time. And they wait.
And then the messages go out, he's gone. It's over. And it feels like the heart has been ripped out of the whole community, and yet the relief that his pain is at an end is equally great, and the two feelings whiplash back and forth and through the family for days. But the beautiful thing is, everybody talks to everybody, bonds are renewed, hugs are exchanged, and one person helps another heal, and that person helps another, and so on, like great ripples in the shared neural network.
I was at folk club when it happened. It was my friend Kimberli's turn to share a song, and something inspired her to sing "Death Come a Knockin'," and just after that the message came through. Bobby has gone home. And we knew, we all knew. She had the profound honor of singing him home. And her eyes shone from the tears of deep sadness, and from the fire of knowing she helped him find his way.
There's a hole in the world where Bobby used to be, and no one yet knows how deep it really is, or how far it goes, or whether anything will ever heal it. Nothing and no one will ever replace him, but hopefully that hole will slowly fill up with the kind of love we found playing music together. Blessed be, safe journeys, and hurry back. We got tunes to play, my friend.
And sometimes a musician, say a mandolin player just for example, happens to also be a fantastically good person who practices deep compassion and kindness, who inspires everyone around him to be kinder to each other, to play more and better music, and to live gently and love everybody. A family starts to grow up around such a person, based on that whole synchronized neural network and heart combo platter thing. Everybody adores everybody, because the dominant vibe is love--love of music, love for each other, love for the audience, for the place, for the time. Life gets so good. It's beautiful and magical and precious.
Then that mandolin player finds out that he's got cancer, so his musical family, which by now is HUGE, gathers around him and says "We're gonna do whatever it takes to keep you around because the music and the love and the vibe are too good to let go, and we love you like lightning loves thunder, do you understand?" So everybody gets together and raises a bunch of money, treatment is given, and the mandolin player gets better and all is well.
Until the leukemia happens. And then it just hurts and hurts and hurts. The family gathers around the mandolin player again, but this time everybody feels helpless and scared and utterly bereft. But they hold him tight, and they check on each other, and they say "I love you" to everybody so many times it seems unreal, but because of him every time they say it, it means more than it did the last time. And they wait.
And then the messages go out, he's gone. It's over. And it feels like the heart has been ripped out of the whole community, and yet the relief that his pain is at an end is equally great, and the two feelings whiplash back and forth and through the family for days. But the beautiful thing is, everybody talks to everybody, bonds are renewed, hugs are exchanged, and one person helps another heal, and that person helps another, and so on, like great ripples in the shared neural network.
I was at folk club when it happened. It was my friend Kimberli's turn to share a song, and something inspired her to sing "Death Come a Knockin'," and just after that the message came through. Bobby has gone home. And we knew, we all knew. She had the profound honor of singing him home. And her eyes shone from the tears of deep sadness, and from the fire of knowing she helped him find his way.
There's a hole in the world where Bobby used to be, and no one yet knows how deep it really is, or how far it goes, or whether anything will ever heal it. Nothing and no one will ever replace him, but hopefully that hole will slowly fill up with the kind of love we found playing music together. Blessed be, safe journeys, and hurry back. We got tunes to play, my friend.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Oh, the Dreadful Wind and Rain
Well, wind anyway. I played Saturday night outside in gale force wind. It wasn't that cold, but wind that strong sucks the heat right out of you. I had to play like a maniac just to stay warm, and as soon as I got into my car, I was drenched in sweat. What an odd combination of discomforts. All in a day's work.
But it got me thinking about all the elements, and how much I love to play music out in the world, walking through a field of wild grasses and flowers with my fiddle, sitting on a fallen tree with my guitar, or just singing softly in the center of a forest. All of these situations are usually totally spontaneous and uncontrolled, and most of the time they have been flat-out magical. But try to control an outdoor situation and often it becomes unmanageable instantly. Blazing, burning sun, high winds, storms blowing up out of nowhere . . . And that's just spring.
We are, believe it or not, wild animals, too, just like the wolf and the bobcat and the falcon; we have just excused ourselves from being part of nature, like petulant children confronted with a healthy, organic dinner: Scoffs, rolls eyes. "May I be excused, pul-lease?"
Um, no. We're part of it. We are, somehow, a vital part of this ecosystem, though I can't imagine what good we are possibly doing any other living thing. We can shut ourselves in our houses and complain endlessly to our friends about how stupid our weather is, but that doesn't change anything.
Matter is energy, and energy can become matter. If I put some energy into making amends for the extreme abuses humanity has inflicted on the planet, for example, by going out into the woods and singing to the trees, good things happen in my life. If ten of my friends will go into a forest and sing to the trees, good things will happen to them. If ten of their friends do the same, good things will start to happen all over the planet. We may not be able to redeem ourselves, and we may not have much time left, honestly. But music is power. And power can be used for good. And there is no better audience than trees and birds and bugs and flowers.
But it got me thinking about all the elements, and how much I love to play music out in the world, walking through a field of wild grasses and flowers with my fiddle, sitting on a fallen tree with my guitar, or just singing softly in the center of a forest. All of these situations are usually totally spontaneous and uncontrolled, and most of the time they have been flat-out magical. But try to control an outdoor situation and often it becomes unmanageable instantly. Blazing, burning sun, high winds, storms blowing up out of nowhere . . . And that's just spring.
We are, believe it or not, wild animals, too, just like the wolf and the bobcat and the falcon; we have just excused ourselves from being part of nature, like petulant children confronted with a healthy, organic dinner: Scoffs, rolls eyes. "May I be excused, pul-lease?"
Um, no. We're part of it. We are, somehow, a vital part of this ecosystem, though I can't imagine what good we are possibly doing any other living thing. We can shut ourselves in our houses and complain endlessly to our friends about how stupid our weather is, but that doesn't change anything.
Matter is energy, and energy can become matter. If I put some energy into making amends for the extreme abuses humanity has inflicted on the planet, for example, by going out into the woods and singing to the trees, good things happen in my life. If ten of my friends will go into a forest and sing to the trees, good things will happen to them. If ten of their friends do the same, good things will start to happen all over the planet. We may not be able to redeem ourselves, and we may not have much time left, honestly. But music is power. And power can be used for good. And there is no better audience than trees and birds and bugs and flowers.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Bowing
I bought another new bow . . . Yes, I did . . . A carbon-fiber one. Very pretty. Snakewood frog, sterling silver hardware, very pretty white abalone. It's a beautiful thing.
And it got me thinking about the right hand again. And I certainly don't mean to be biased against any lefties out there - so let me just say by "right hand" I mean the hand that generates the sound by plucking or bowing. I guess I will always be obsessed with the right-hand part of playing, the textural side of technique. The right hand is responsible for more than half the tone. You can have an incredible violin, but if you have a bad bow, you're going to sound bad. You can have a so-so violin, but if you play it with a fantastic bow, you'll sound great.
Same with the guitar - you can know all the chords in the world, but if you can't keep time, or if you play the wrong strings when you strum, you'll sound awful. Likewise, if you approach a so-so guitar with command and confidence, it'll sound like a good guitar, but if you play timidly, even a super nice guitar will sound thin and hollow.
The left hand is the intellectual, mathematical part of playing, the knowing of the scales and chords, which are like equations and formulas. The right hand is the emotional part of playing, the painter daubing notes of color. We say great players draw or pull or coax notes from their instruments, which are emotional, tactile, verbal things, and have everything to do with the way great players use their right hands.
In some traditional kinds of Witchcraft, the left hand is the receptive or invoking hand, while the right hand is the sending or evoking hand, the hand that throws the fireball, so to speak. The left hand reaches out into the Universe for the knowledge, energy, or power needed, and the right hand puts that energy into action once it has been imbued with the Witch's will. The musician uses the left hand to make the intellectual decision about which notes to play, and uses the right hand to send those notes out into the world.
May your right hand know what your left hand is doing . . .
And it got me thinking about the right hand again. And I certainly don't mean to be biased against any lefties out there - so let me just say by "right hand" I mean the hand that generates the sound by plucking or bowing. I guess I will always be obsessed with the right-hand part of playing, the textural side of technique. The right hand is responsible for more than half the tone. You can have an incredible violin, but if you have a bad bow, you're going to sound bad. You can have a so-so violin, but if you play it with a fantastic bow, you'll sound great.
Same with the guitar - you can know all the chords in the world, but if you can't keep time, or if you play the wrong strings when you strum, you'll sound awful. Likewise, if you approach a so-so guitar with command and confidence, it'll sound like a good guitar, but if you play timidly, even a super nice guitar will sound thin and hollow.
The left hand is the intellectual, mathematical part of playing, the knowing of the scales and chords, which are like equations and formulas. The right hand is the emotional part of playing, the painter daubing notes of color. We say great players draw or pull or coax notes from their instruments, which are emotional, tactile, verbal things, and have everything to do with the way great players use their right hands.
In some traditional kinds of Witchcraft, the left hand is the receptive or invoking hand, while the right hand is the sending or evoking hand, the hand that throws the fireball, so to speak. The left hand reaches out into the Universe for the knowledge, energy, or power needed, and the right hand puts that energy into action once it has been imbued with the Witch's will. The musician uses the left hand to make the intellectual decision about which notes to play, and uses the right hand to send those notes out into the world.
May your right hand know what your left hand is doing . . .
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Music and therapy
Sometimes I think of what I do as a healing practice rather than a creative one. Especially teaching lessons. Lessons are by their very nature therapeutic. When you play a musical instrument, you engage both sides of the brain, release endorphins, stimulate deep learning centers, awaken sleeping senses . . . And you can learn so much about who you and how you learn. Helping people navigate those processes can be beautiful or terrifying, brilliant or frustrating, rewarding or exhausting. Depends on the student.
I almost never get frustrated with students unless they don't want to learn. I have every kind of student from whizz-bangs to those who struggle mightily. And it seems that the ones who really struggle, who are really fighting hard to do this, are the ones who are the most engaged--because they are fighting for what they truly love and desire to do. I would rather teach 100 students with Down Syndrome, or senior citizens who have never even picked up an instrument, or autistic students who don't talk to me and never look me in the eye but play with such feeling, than five students who have the capacity to learn it easily but don't care whether they learn it or not.
Desire is the key. Desire to do it, willingness to try, and commitment to practice. My challenged students will probably never play Carnegie Hall, but for me, every baby step they take feels exhilarating. I don't care how long it takes to learn one thing--I don't care if they never memorize a single song--because the most important thing to them is the joy they feel making music, and that's what music is all about.
I almost never get frustrated with students unless they don't want to learn. I have every kind of student from whizz-bangs to those who struggle mightily. And it seems that the ones who really struggle, who are really fighting hard to do this, are the ones who are the most engaged--because they are fighting for what they truly love and desire to do. I would rather teach 100 students with Down Syndrome, or senior citizens who have never even picked up an instrument, or autistic students who don't talk to me and never look me in the eye but play with such feeling, than five students who have the capacity to learn it easily but don't care whether they learn it or not.
Desire is the key. Desire to do it, willingness to try, and commitment to practice. My challenged students will probably never play Carnegie Hall, but for me, every baby step they take feels exhilarating. I don't care how long it takes to learn one thing--I don't care if they never memorize a single song--because the most important thing to them is the joy they feel making music, and that's what music is all about.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Furious Activity
This winter sucked. And it sent me so far down a black hole I didn't even know where out was . . . I am not somebody that gets dysfunctionally depressed, but holy crap. I was in trouble.
Fortunately, I'm not someone who lets dysfunction stand in the way of a good time, so . . . I'm back. With a lot of help from my partner and a few kindly but no-nonsense spirit guides, I have recovered. Whew.
"What's happening?" you may well ask. Lots . . . First of all, stay tuned for the launch of gayladrake.com - coming soon to a browser near you! The Aunt G and the Stone City Nephews record is back on track, Pete is mixing like a madman, and we're going to aim for late-spring/early-summer release. Look for the fundraising campaign to begin very soon. The amazing John Rathje has some outstanding t-shirt designs, and a beautiful RECORD cover - YES! VINYL!!! - to entice you to help an auntie out. Can't wait.
I've taken the winter off from gigging, so I'm ramping that back up as well. Natalie Brown and I played at Uptown Bill's Coffeehouse in Iowa City last weekend, and WOW what a fabulous gig that was! Packed house, wonderfully attentive audience, dancing in chairs . . . It was incredible. Next I'm with my old friend Dan Johnson at the NewBo City Market in Cedar Rapids, March 20, 5 to 7:45PM - which is, appropriately enough, the first day of spring, and certainly there needs to be music! Then March 28 I'll be at Mendoza Wine and Music in downtown Coralville from 8-10, and on April 3 at the ass-crack of dawn I am getting in my car and heading for Fort Collins, CO, to play some music to support my dear friend Kevin Houchin's gallery opening on April 4, and to do a riotously fun house concert on April 5. Then back home April 6 to celebrate my son's 22nd birthday. April 19 Johnson and I are at Cafe Paradiso in Fairfield.
So hang tight, stick around, kick back . . . I'll keep you posted on everything. Life is good!
Fortunately, I'm not someone who lets dysfunction stand in the way of a good time, so . . . I'm back. With a lot of help from my partner and a few kindly but no-nonsense spirit guides, I have recovered. Whew.
"What's happening?" you may well ask. Lots . . . First of all, stay tuned for the launch of gayladrake.com - coming soon to a browser near you! The Aunt G and the Stone City Nephews record is back on track, Pete is mixing like a madman, and we're going to aim for late-spring/early-summer release. Look for the fundraising campaign to begin very soon. The amazing John Rathje has some outstanding t-shirt designs, and a beautiful RECORD cover - YES! VINYL!!! - to entice you to help an auntie out. Can't wait.
I've taken the winter off from gigging, so I'm ramping that back up as well. Natalie Brown and I played at Uptown Bill's Coffeehouse in Iowa City last weekend, and WOW what a fabulous gig that was! Packed house, wonderfully attentive audience, dancing in chairs . . . It was incredible. Next I'm with my old friend Dan Johnson at the NewBo City Market in Cedar Rapids, March 20, 5 to 7:45PM - which is, appropriately enough, the first day of spring, and certainly there needs to be music! Then March 28 I'll be at Mendoza Wine and Music in downtown Coralville from 8-10, and on April 3 at the ass-crack of dawn I am getting in my car and heading for Fort Collins, CO, to play some music to support my dear friend Kevin Houchin's gallery opening on April 4, and to do a riotously fun house concert on April 5. Then back home April 6 to celebrate my son's 22nd birthday. April 19 Johnson and I are at Cafe Paradiso in Fairfield.
So hang tight, stick around, kick back . . . I'll keep you posted on everything. Life is good!
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