PAINTING THE PORCH

I took the week off from writing my usual column for this e-newsletter, instead sharing something from my book, Hurry Slowly. Reflecting back to one particular summer years ago, some things I learned still ring true. Enjoy!

                 

PAINTING THE PORCH

            It's been quite a busy summer at our house. Among other things, we had the opportunity to re-do the front porch of our Victorian cottage. We were fortunate to receive a generous restoration grant from the San Antonio Conservation Society. The grant paid for all the supplies and contractors, but did not include the painting. So Zet and I have been prepping and painting the detailed woodwork off and on for a couple of weeks now.

            We've done a fair amount of this kind of work over the years, so we sort of knew what we were getting into. But we hadn't counted on having one for the hottest Junes in history. Combined with my awareness of all he other projects and deadlines bearing down on our overheated desktops, the oppressive heat made me feel tired and very put upon as I was painting in the yard.

            Then one morning, I got tired of working so hard and decided that the easiest solution was to make a game of it, to go ahead and do the work, but from a different perspective. The rules were simple: Pretend this painting project was really a Creative Living class I'd signed up for. My homework assignment for the week was to note the number of spiritual lessons being presented. Here are some of the things I learned in class:

1.    Slow down and relax. The work gets done a lot faster when I'm working slower. Trying to paint things in a hurry just means I'll spend more time cleaning up mistakes later.

2.    Focus on the little things. Paint one small area at a time. It's helpful to check in and take a look at the Big Picture, the larger task, periodically but not too often. The real work is done one small patch at a time.

3.    More is not always better. It's tempting to load the brush with paint, because it seems to go faster. But the more paint on the brush, the harder it is to control; the less paint, the more control and fewer mistakes.

4.    Work is more pleasant in the company of friends. It's not only more fun, but much easier painting alongside someone else. There's just more energy available when tow or more are gathered and focused on the work at hand. Even when Zet was painting on the other side of the house, I swear I could feel the energy of working together - or feel the drop in energy when she went off to take care of some unrelated business.

5.    Remember to breathe consciously, especially when faced with a particularly tricky task. It makes a big difference in a quiet little way.

             So, that's what I've learned so far. Both the front porch and the Creative Living class are definitely still works in progress. But that's the joy of owning an old house and of being enrolled as a perpetual student in the School of Life.

           

With gratitude and blessings,

           Rudi

YEAH, YEAH, YEAH

          The first time I ever played guitar was on February 10, 1964 - the day after being mesmerized by the Beatles' dynamic first performance on the Ed Sullivan Show. Wow! I'd never seen anything like it. They were so good, sounded so exciting and were having so much fun, that I wanted some of that action, too.

            Fortunately, my father had a cheap guitar on which he would bang out old jazz standards, neither of which had ever really interested me before. But overnight, that battered old instrument became the most magical, potent object in the house, radiating an aura of endless possibilities.

LEARNING IT

            Learning to play guitar wasn't easy; I didn't have very good hand-eye coordination, plus I was a left-hander trying to play on a right-hander's instrument, so it was a slow, tedious process at best.

            Luckily, I'd always enjoyed singing, frequently singing solos in the church choir and school music programs from the time I was six years old. Growing up, I often felt like an oddball, being the overweight, buck-toothed bookworm with big ears, few friends and a foreign accent. But all of that awkwardness seemed to melt away whenever I sang, whether standing in front of a full auditorium or sitting alone in my bedroom.

LOVING IT

            So, once I'd finally managed the rudiments of strumming the instrument, there was something truly magical about the combination of singing and playing guitar together. The symbiotic relationship between fingers, guitar strings and vocal chords made it possible for a wellspring of primal urges to emerge from the recesses of my heart, where they'd been waiting in hiding for years. My newfound ability to entrain words with melody, rhythm, meaning and movement all in one fell swoop was not just fun, it was a fundamental shift in how I experienced the world and my place in it.

             Somehow those early songs by the Beatles, the Animals, the Rolling Stones and the many bands that followed allowed me to find words and music to express all the amorphous feelings that had been bottled up inside for years. It wasn't long before I joined forces with several junior high school classmates to form our first band, The Hodads. Now the magic was multiplied many times over by the driving power of bass, drums and harmonies - plus the sheer joy of having buddies to make music with. I was off and running, heading into a lifetime of sharing that musical joy with as many others as I could.

REMEMBERING IT

            Recently, Paul McLaughlin, the lead guitarist in the band, (a truly talented musician, who has since gone on to perform with many of the top names on the Texas music scene), unearthed and posted a photo of the Hodads to his Facebook page, which I've taken the liberty of reposting here. (That's me, the 2nd blue-shirted dude from the left, cradling my first microphone that I'd bought at Radio Shack just a few weeks earlier). It's definitely hokey and a little embarrassing, yet seeing that image brings back a flood of memories around the sheer joy of playing music, just for the heck of it.

LIVING IT
            Fortunately, I've been able to make a living by sharing words and music from that magical space that the Beatles first showed us. Fifty years, eight albums and thousands of professional performances later, I continue to feel extremely blessed by the many gifts that music has brought to my life. I'm grateful each time a new song arrives in my heart, each time I get to sing with others, each time I feel stretched by the Muse. Whether it is on Sunday Morning in the Circle, or in concert, at a corporate event, arts festival or a nursing home - whenever I have an opportunity to perform from that inner space that music provides, it affirms that I'm living my purpose, doing what I was born to do.

            Of course, it hasn't been all fun and games; there have been plenty of challenges along the way, some of which continue to this day. There have been plenty of doubts and creative droughts; times when it was hard to make connections, or discern which direction to go next; times when someone's opinion carried more weight that I'd like to admit; times when it felt like I really should quit... 

            But, as far as I can tell, those aren't separate from the process of making music and living my life purposefully; they are an integral part of it. Plus, any discomforts or discouragements I've encountered are far outweighed by the sheer joy of doing what I love to do. To paraphrase the Fab Four, "I love it -- yeah, yeah, yeah."

           

With gratitude and blessings,

          Rudi 

          PS:  Speaking of the sheer love of making music, our Underground Sounds concert in the Cave Without a Name last month was one of my all-time favorite gigs EVER! It wasn't just a show; it was an amazing mind-body-spirit experience. So much so that I immediately booked a return performance on July 26, to build on that energy. I really hope you can join us for what promises to be a wonderful time. (details at www.celebrationcircle.org)

 

GOING WITH THE FLOW

  
          This morning I awoke with a deep-seated desire to get out of the city and spend the day in nature, preferably by going swimming and hiking at the Guadalupe River State Park near Bulverde. Fortunately, we can probably do it, because it's Monday, our day off. I can't wait to go. Unfortunately, first we need to spend an hour or two preparing the Circle newsletter for bulk mailing, then drive over to the Bulk Business Mail department at the Central Post Office for processing. Then get Mateo to a doctor's appointment and run another errand, before we can get on the road.

            Then, if traffic allows, it will be another 30-45 minute drive, plus the time to deal with parking and loading-in before we could actually get our feet wet. Bummer. I'm guessing that we'll be lucky to arrive at the river by3pm, at best.

EAGER TO GO

            Sure enough, the rest of the bulk mailing process takes longer than expected, because the registration form we'd completed at home has to be re-done when I got to the post office. The friendly, but unyielding postal clerk informs me that USPS Bulk Mailing Form #3602-NZ had been replaced by the brand-new Postage Statement, 3602N-1 - which fact I didn't find out until after I'd already filled out a Form 3605N.

            And then there is the time-consuming process of being shuffled from one side of the huge postal facility to another and back, in order to pay the invoice and finalize the shipment.

            Then it's off to the doctor's office, to meet my hungry son, who really wants to eat at a nearby restaurant, more than he wants to travel an hour north for a picnic and swim. So... by the time we finish eating lunch, re-negotiating our family schedule and making our way through the heavy traffic bottle-necked on Highway 281, we finally pull into State Park parking lot alongside the river at 4:30pm. By then, all three of us are feeling tired, hot and grumpy - and I'm wondering whose crazy idea this was anyway.

TIME TO LET GO

            But five minutes later, as I wade into the cool, free-flowing water of the Guadalupe and lie down on a smooth, flat, semi-submerged limestone boulder in the middle of the stream, everything else fades into nothingness. Zet and Mateo have both gone off in their own directions. Now there is only this giant, age-old boulder beneath me, a clear blue sky above and the delicious sensation of the ceaseless river current washing over my neck, shoulders and torso, rinsing my cares downstream.

            Every now and then, I hop off my perch to splash around in an adjacent swimming hole for a minute or two, before resuming my prone position on the rock and feeling the direct transmission of energy from the earth, sun, sky and water flowing to me, through me, as me. Truly. We are One. Ahhh...

ONLY DON'T KNOW

            Soon enough the sun sinks behind the hill. In a few minutes it will be time to get up, dry off and drive back to the city to resume my duties as Rudi. It's all too easy to think of my experience here (submerged in beauty) as being separate from my life there (busy in the city). But the free-flowing song of the river asks me to reconsider this artificial division and urges me remember that the Infinite Stream of Life, Love and Light flows to me, through me, as me - at all times, under all circumstances. How and why this is so remains a deep mystery -- but that doesn't change the power and the possibilities of living from this place of unity, wherever I go, whatever I do.

            At least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

With love,
          Rudi

SWEETNESS IN THE AIR

             I wish you were here to smell the sweet, pungent, scent of the night-blooming jasmine growing outside our office window, because there's no way that I'm going to find the right adjectives to adequately describe how delicately, but firmly, those jasmine flowers perfume the sticky, warm breeze blowing in from the Gulf Coast this evening.

DAY AND NIGHT

            If you walked by it during the day, you probably wouldn't notice this amazing little tree, because Cestrum nocturnum just looks like an ordinary, mild-mannered shrub. Even now, during the height of its blooming season, when it's thick green foliage is covered with hundreds of blossoms, they remain inconspicuous, looking like little bits of thick, off-white thread, closed in on themselves, the secret of their scent kept under tight wraps.

            But shortly after nightfall, each one of those non-descript, limp threads has been magically transformed into a small, but stout trumpet, blaring out a distinctively haunting note which seems delicate from a distance, but becomes a loud, honking noise from up close.

TREASURED MOMENTS

            If I'd stayed indoors all night, I'd probably miss it. But instead, as soon as I walk out the kitchen door, I'm floored by the heady smell, telling me to slow down, breathe deeply, and feel the fleeting nature of this precious moment. Reminding me once again that this gift is only available for a few hours nightly, a few weeks of the year. "Enjoy us while you can," sing the blossoms...

            In this age of technological wonders, we've become so used to the availability of bright red strawberries from California (or Chili), plump green asparagus from Australia (or Mexico) and fresh-cut tulips from Holland (or Canada) year-round at the corner supermarket. To clicking on our smartphone and connecting instantly for a face-to-face chat with someone who is thousands of miles away. To switching on the thermostat and feeling warm as toast in winter, or cool as a cucumber in the heat of summer. And all of that is certainly wonderful.

HERE AND NOW

            But the heady scent of this night-blooming jasmine pulls me fully into this one present moment now, reminding me that much of what is most precious and meaningful in life is transient. Local. Fleeting. Located just an arm's reach away, or right beneath my nose: a dear one's smile or loving touch; a songbird's call; the still small voice of Spirit -- all calling out to be recognized, realized and appreciated now... and now... and now. 

           

With gratitude and hopes that you, too, are enjoying the blessings of summer,

          Rudi

 

HOW SWEET IT IS

          My tongue is dancing with delight as it licks around the edges of a spoonful of sweet, freshly gathered honey that Zet harvested from her beehives yesterday. This may be the purest, most soul-satisfying sweetness I've ever encountered, made even tastier by knowing that it came from our own backyard, thanks to large amounts of sweat and effort from Zet, our neighbor, Ginny and the thousands of bees that have been swarming around our neighborhood.

MAYBE BEES

            Zet and I had long aspired to become beekeepers, because it seemed like a cool thing to do, in addition to the health benefits that eating locally produced honey is reputed to have for people like me, who suffer from seasonal allergies. And I really enjoyed the "Introduction to Beekeeping Workshop" that Zet, Ginny and I took two years ago from a very kind and knowledgeable Amish beekeeper. 

MAYBE NOT

            But I started to get discouraged when we ended up spending more money than anticipated on buying our first two starter colonies, known as "nucs," (and then two more, when all the bees in the first ones accidently got overheated and died), in addition to the white body suits, veiled hats and various beekeeping paraphernalia required. And when I got stung the first two times we worked on the hives, despite wearing long sleeves, long pants, gloves and a veiled hat on a steamy hot day, I quickly said "No thank you!" to any further adventures as an apiarist.

COMMITMENT

            Fortunately, Zet and Ginny were more determined. They did additional research, bought a few more tools, and continued the work, even though they both got stung several times in the process. Zet also got a nasty burn on her forefinger from handling the hot metal smoker, in addition to having had a pretty strong reaction to thestings, resulting in her arm swelling and throbbing painfully for days.  

            Then, last year, both hives wereattacked by robber bees, leaving the colony queen-less and decimated, but fortunately notsimultaneously. Both times they were able to feed the remaining hive with sugar water for several monthsto keep the colony strong. All of these trials and tribulations in a relatively small harvest of just four pints lastfall, and it really didn't taste all that good.

FRUITS OF THE LABOR

            But their perseverance has definitely paid off. This time they gathered over 1½ gallons of honey, with the delightful prospect of harvesting that much or more again in just a few weeks. Best of all, I'm savoring the delicate, flowery aroma and taste of this luscious spoonful in my mouth right now, my enjoyment definitely magnified by the awareness of how much time, energy and commitment were involved in bringing this ambrosia to our kitchen table.

            Come to think of it, it's not unlike the process of being a parent, a husband, professional musician, or a spiritual director. All have been deeply challenging at times, but have brought an amazing sweetness and richness to my life, made even sweeter by the patience, power and perseverance that they required over the long haul. For which I'm deeply grateful.

With gratitude and blessings,

          Rudi

NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE

           Some things defy description. For instance, local folklore has it that the Cave Without a Name in Boerne received its name in 1939, when the owner of the property held a naming contest, and the winning entry was from a young boy who suggested it remain a "Cave Without a Name" because it was "too beautiful to have a name."

            I think I know how the boy felt. Even though this Saturdaymarks the 16th year in a row that we'll be celebrating the Summer Solstice with an Underground Sounds concert in that particular cave, I still find myself at a loss for how to describe this experience.

NO WONDER

            It's not just that it's a highly unusual, richly-textured, multi-layered concert, performed on a wide range of instruments, each vocalist and musician specifically chosen for their distinct timbre. Nor is it just the crystal-clear reverberations and acoustic properties of the 40-foot domed, limestone ceiling, or the physical beauty of the Queen's Throne Room, with its awe-inspiring stalagmites and stalactites accentuated by creative lighting.

            Or the comfortable, yet highly dramatic descent each participant experiences, travelling down 126 stairs beforehand, literally climbing into the womb of Mother Earth, ninety feet under the surface. Or feeling the weight of the cool, moist air changing with each step down, while hearing the hypnotic sounds of water drip-drip-dripping as it seeps through the ancient limestone walls, continuing the age-old process of creating these eye-popping rock formations, one drop at a time.

NO LIGHT

            Or the startling, pitch-black darkness that immediately envelopes the chamber for 15-20 minutes when all the lights are turned off halfway through the concert - much less the mesmerizing sound of the didgeridoo reverberating through the dark, accompanied by the resonant sounds of Tibetan bowls and the throbbing drums.

            Or the open-ended invitation to harness the collective group energy, as well as the creative pulse of the Summer Solstice vibrations, to help set specific goals and intentions for the future.

            But, put all those factors together, and the result is a deliciously nuanced interplay of all of the factors above, creating an experience that is... well, frankly... beyond naming or labeling, but well worth encountering.

NO KIDDING

            Guess I'll just have to leave it at that - and invite you to come share this amazing experience with us, then come up with your own description, if you can.

            Advance tickets are still available for just $20 ($25 at the door), and you can click here

 to get yours now. And if the cost is a factor for you, consider volunteering as an usher by contacting the Circle office at210-533-6767.

            In any case, I hope to see you there, or somewhere around the Circle sometime soon - and wish you a blessed summer.

With joy,

        Rudi

REMEMBERING THE MOON AND HER SISTER

 There we were. Looking up into the night sky, remembering our sweet friend, Cascade, who had died two days earlier, on the morning of the June Full Moon. In her final exit, as with so many of her entrances, Cas had a soft, easy touch and an excellent sense of timing. I wouldn't see her for months, even years, at a time. And then, there would be those twinkling eyes smiling at me from the middle of some grocery store aisle or just there on a city sidewalk. But whatever the location, she would invariably appear in the middle of an otherwise difficult day - just when I really needed the joy and encouragement she always seemed to carry with her.

CREATING SPACE

           Now that Cas was gone, a bunch of her friends and family members were hanging around the house with her husband Dave. He was trying hard to be brave, and we were all trying equally hard to be helpful and hopeful in the face of her seemingly senseless death from cancer. Normally we would have stayed inside their cool house on such a hot night. But it was clearly a night to be outdoors honoring our dead sister's deep love for Mother Earth. So we strolled outside, leaving the house in ones and twos, taking the path out to where her ashes would be scattered later, in her favorite oak grove, a couple of hundred yards from the house. As we walked, the last drops of daylight soaked through the branches of the Spanish Oaks and cedar trees overhead. When we got to the grove, we tried to light a large Mexican candle someone had placed in the middle of a circle of stones. But it wouldn't stay lit; the breezes came too strong and too often to let the flame live.

ASKING QUESTIONS

           That didn't stop us from drumming, chanting, listening to the sound of the sun sinking into the horizon, watching the light reflect from each other's eyes in the gathering darkness. Someone had brought a flute, someone else two Brazilian rainsticks and a guitar. Only one person had a handkerchief, but nobody needed it. For during the time we sat in that circle together, we were strong and brave, connected as we were by the total mystery of such an unkind death. The questions were mostly unspoken, lurking in the backs of our heads: Why Cas? Why one so classy, so young, so strong for so long? Why would Death want to come claim someone so vibrant, so talented, with a teenage daughter and husband who loved her so deeply?

           The Big Questions don't really seem to go away or get solved by addressing them to God/dess. But it does seem that engaging in sacred rituals can help us mortals find some measure of peace in the presence of the great mysteries, can help us remember that there is much more to the histories of our lives than what we can measure with our eyes, account for with our spreadsheets, organized within the boundaries of our appointment books. Shared rituals seem especially helpful when a difficult life passage needs to be maneuvered by folks who would otherwise feel ill-equipped to handle their thoughts and feelings.

SHARING ECHOES

           So, there we were. A score of middle-aging Flower Children and several of our teenaged charges - singing, talking, listening, praying and swaying for a surprisingly short hour. Then suddenly, Jane, one of Cascade's best friends, spotted the Moon making her grand entrance above a nearby pasture. One by one, we stopped singing and drumming and drifted over to where Jane stood transfixed. By the time we'd all gotten to the clearing, even the youngest of the children was quiet. Everyone had run out of words. The only thing that made sense was to stand there in total silence, facing the moon, asking our questions, feeling the evening breezes, embracing each other and our memories of Cascade.

           One of our chantsongs from earlier in the evening had travelled a quarter of a million miles, echoed off the face of the moon and came back to reflect in my inner ear:

"Sister is gone, but She's still here.

Sister is gone, but She's still here.

The wind is blowing through our tears.

Sister is gone, but She's still here.

Sister is gone, but the Moon still rise.

Sister is gone, but the Moon still rise.

Sister's shining through our eyes.

Sister is gone, but the Moon still rise..."

With love and blessings,

          Rudi