Friday, December 14, 2007

Lighthouses, Storytellers and Innkeepers

Solstice Night, December 21st, 2007
Celebrate The Dreaming
Join me for the Turning of the Wheel
Bring a verse for winter:
A song you love,
A drum you love,
A love you love...
I'd like to honor the longest night
by tending a kind of creative fire. I'd like to celebrate
the turning of the year by offering
praise for the soul in Dreamtime.
If we do not dream, how can we bear the
darkness of our nights? how do we build the world town?
I'd like to celebrate with music and poetry and storytelling...
I hope it will be a nugget of a night,
one we can all carry like a portable campfire.
As around a campfire, we share the stories of co-creation.
We respect the work of the dark, cold night...

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The Faithful Gardener, Epilogue, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

As I complete this book, I look out onto the little tree farm I began to grow three years ago when I first began to write The Faithful Gardener. I began the tree farm and the book as active prayers in honor of Uncle and my other refugee dear ones, and to entreat the strongest intercession and blessing I know to be shed down on those millions in the world who, of necessity, often not of their choice or of their making, struggle to walk an unfamiliar or painful road.

To create this living prayer, I began by digging out a wide swath of turf and making certain ablutions over the soil, as is our custom. Then I set the small parcel of ground afire-a low fire trenched on all sides on a completely windless day.* Afterward, I left the ground fallow.

The first year and the following, a sufficient amount of tears were cried into the soil so that the ground could be proclaimed properly christened. Then I waited and watched, watching over this empty little plot. In the midst of our brick-bungalow village, would any seed be able to find it’s way to this tiny empty field?

Neighbors and passers-by stopped to ask why the yard was “torn up.” “Why is it so naked?” Didn’t I plan to put down some nice Kentucky Blue? “You gonna build a big garage?” I stood by my homely fallow land.
“You're growing a what?”
“I’m growing a forest in the city, an urban forest.”
People went away scratching their heads.
A village inspector stopped by. He said he had heard that someone in the neighborhood was building a forest in their backyard.
“Doesn’t look like a forest,” he said.
“Wait,” I said.
“Might be illegal,” he said.
“As you can see at this point it is only a forest in the air.”
“Hmmf,” he said.

The second year, there came the faithful miracle. Tiny trees began to appear in the fallow ground, trees so small that one would be tempted to tell children that these were lived in by elves. There were the tiniest sprigs of spruce, a delicate red-stemmed maple, and seven baby bays from a huge mother tree down the road. At the end of the third year now, there are two maples four feet tall, fifteen bays, two ash trees almost five feet tall, three golden rain trees whose small puffed up lanterns have bloomed twice, and twenty-seven elm starts.

As amazing, it appears as though the earth remembers its own most ancient patterns, for beneath the saplings, little grape ivies and fernleaf and other ground covers have begun to grow. Full-headed clover has broken through the skin of this earth. Flickers, sparrows and woodpeckers, and other small animals have brought seeds of various sorts. There is the start of a wild strawberry vines, and there are wild onions. There is yerba buena, there is mint, there is yanica, and other herbs, all thriving as though nature has a tremendous love for the medicinal as well as for the beauteous.

Onto this plot of land that once held so little, also have come new butterflies, the flying red-spotted ladies, and crickets-not the usual tired-out urban crickets who say “twe-twe,” but the crickets that sing four-part harmonies and ring like bells, “twetwetwetwetwetwe...” There is an old wooden garden wall that protects the little tree farm from north winds in the winter. The stars overhead can now shine on another tiny part of reclaimed Eden.

This miracle of new life made in fallow ground is an old, old story. In ancient Greece, Persephone, the maiden Goddess of the earth, was captured and held for a long time underground. During that time, her mother, the earth itself, so missed her lovely spirit that she became barren, and a cold and sterile Ever-winter fell across the land.When Persephone was finally released from the travails of hell, she returned to the earth with such joy, that every step of her bare foot that touched the barren ground instantly caused a swath of green and flowers to spread in every direction.

Through this little urban forest I contemplate my refugee foster family, the faithful ones who, long ago, through fate, became my own. How a child torn in one way came together with those torn in another way is a destiny that seems, as we say, “God’s plan and God’s business.” I understand less of what I gave to my foster family and much more of what they gave to me. Love, oh yes, wisdom, oh yes and sustained harshnesses of certain kinds that abraded the rough edges of something hopefully valuable and worthy of being polished in me. They offered hard trials of many kinds, and a pure respect for survival-not of the fittest-but of the wisest, of those most devoted to life, to the land, to one’s loved ones, including those who are hard to love, and to those who need love more than anything.

Through the lives we lived, I learned the harshest gift-lesson to accept, and the most powerful I know-that is, knowledge, an absolute certainty that life repeats itself, renews itself, no matter how many times it is stabbed, stripped to the bone, hurled to the ground, hurt ridiculed, ignored, scorned, looked down upon, tortured or made helpless.

I learned from my dear people as much about the grave, about facing the demons, and about rebirth as I have learned in all my psychoanalytic training and all my twenty-five years of clinical practice. I know that those who are in some ways and for some time shorn of the belief in life itself-that they ultimately are the ones who will come to know best that Eden lies underneath the empty field, that the new seed goes first to the empty and open places-even when the open place is a grieving heart, a tortured mind, or a devastated spirit.

What is this faithful process of spirit and seed that touches empty ground and makes it rich again? It’s greater workings I cannot claim to understand. But I know this: Whatever we set our days to might be the least of what we do, if we do not also understand that something is waiting for us to make ground for it, something that lingers near us, something that loves, something that waits for the right ground to be made so it can make its full presence known.

I am certain that as we stand in the care of this faithful force, that what has seemed dead is dead no longer, what has seemed lost is no longer lost, that which some have claimed impossible, is made clearly possible, and what ground is fallow is only resting- resting and waiting for the blessed seed to arrive on the wind with all Godspeed.

And it will.

*If you have never set a groundfire, you absolutely ought not to, period.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Living In Clip

I: I am the things I love:
all who are around me, those who surround me:
thoughts of my mother, love of sound; I am the wind, I am the prairie:
wild laughter in my ears: I am the clip.
I am love of heights, I am the sidewalk: stoned, seeing the trail:
think about what I have said:
long gesticulator, paper scratcher, wood carver, roller skater: luck dragon.
The things I am will demonstrate themselves, I will make myself apparent.
I love these things I am: looking; glass of water.
I am seeker, sought, lioness, dusk on tall wheat grass, pavement pounder,
feather bidden with love on both arms: I am the page turning time in my life,
the best I’ll ever be: singer, clean cut, tired in blue jeans.
My heart is true. This is my offer: Offer: the journey home.
I am the things I love:
I am the space between trees,particle of cloud:
I am acorn breath, shoelace coiled in my boot,the lover come home; curious.
I am the things I love: all things standing at the door,
sitting on the steps, running down the street, driving: clip, clip, clip:
passion of Florence, able to be Alice,
particle of light.

II: This is the life I’m living,
the life I’ve chosen, the life I’ve lifted
with both arms above
my head.
I am the woman next door, the crying female Siamese, water bowl in hand, not aware my
fertility is bound by window, mesh screen, sill: instead that I lack instinct; scent.
She is the coil; clip, clip, clip helicopter stomach,
woman-siren of Minneapolis; a scribble
and a knot.
Not I here. Not I in shame. Not I perched in the arms of the twangley tree.
She is ten thousand miles, song of siren: a ghost reading aloud in the park, a
listening-bird. She the tickle.
I the swan, early dusk, turnpike, babe in arms. I the hand, the ear. I the one weighted,
flesh-bound. A crawling black bug seeking stanza, comma, string, hooks to the backs of
mirrors: seeking: the rearranged living room, phantom limbs,
depressions of shag - not
Not moon goddess. Not moon lover. Not ocean swimmer.

Not my lips open, not your lips open.
Not a
Not a bottle of red,
red wine.

This is the life I’m living; not a life spent longing. Not a life spent. The life wishing
urgency, listening to animals, always opening a book: the woman next door, the
sigh-wren, the Siamese at the window.
Ten thousand miles.

III: 10 o’clock
all these people talking eating:
I am a cotton shirt hung out to dry I
am the light, I am the light:

I feel that I am home, we are kissing, holding becoming our own two trees,
holding our own two bodies inside each other:

there’s something about witches who fall in love with
each other, it’s like bloodshock, intoxication, trepidation:
salty on my skin, potent: olive oil, fine scented garlic love:

stays always with the body: will always remember the rum of a
sentence: the days never end my sweet potent lover, potion of
mine you are all over me, up and down my strawberry spine:

the love between witches sends them home; warm blood wrapped arond
their fingers: I see your body walk through the door, I am never without you:

When I cut my hair, when I change the sheets I am touched by your spirit:

these are perfect combinations: the mess if coffee tables, bathtubs,
anything but the way you walk, look, stand at the counter:
don’t look at me, don’t stay out of my bed:
I love you all ways, for all ways giving:
go away if you won’t talk to me: please come sit by me and touch your leg
next to me: turn your glowing self towards me, I miss you.
this is for no one
else but you: for give.
I will back down crying if you come near me again: this takes:
some days the road is laid before me and I know where I’m headed: no
hills to trip me up, so long:
other days you are the road, a task before me, the
length of my hair: I’m not speaking my own language anymore yet my
tongue knows nothing else: only the most beautiful peices of your heart, like poetry
sprung up between my toes: someone should say something sad and breaking to me right
now: something that tells
me I’m not the only one:
tell me you don’t really think I used you.

Viva Casa, Sewing Room

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Instrumentation is a Fifteen Letter Word

The Music Section: Part One: Ali Farke Toure and Toumani Diabate

Sometimes c.d.'s pick me. It's happened at Target, Roadrunner Records, Cheapo and the Electric Fetus. From across the room certain albums call my attention like my mom's dog Sophie when she clamps down on her rope toy and growls with glee as she wrestles me for the toy. Absorbed completely in our task she and I are happy to play and it's supremely good fun.

For example: One day as I me walked through the modern rock section at Cheapo I saw a c.d. staring at me from across the way. Knowing full well what this meant since it's happened to me before, I walked past it at least twenty times (I absolutely did not the have $18 to spend on it!) and steadfastly refused to even pick it up and look at it. The colors and the cover photo were my perfect valentine. The feeling I got from the album brewed in my chest for days afterward.

In the Heart of the Moon is a perfect representation of what I love about music. It's a living thing. It reflects every aspect of my spiritual practice. It is a unique recording because it is a profound experience. I've heard from musician friends that improvisation is a difficult place to achieve Utopian or Beatific experience in music. People need to play together for many hours to gain the fluidity of the exultant improvisation. This aspect of In the Heart of the Moon is tenfold. These musicians are reviving and co-creating a grassroots/folk musical tradition in it's ideal form - as integral to the fisherman as to the Mayoral office. A celebration and a call to co-creation as made possible by all beings.

This album is one of the best I've come across in a very long time. The best because it resonates with all the love and understanding inside me. It brings to life an aspect of myself I am learning how to share. The albums I've had this experience with are few, but they all have the same calling card: they latch onto me the way Sophie latches onto the rope toy. They catch my eye and my heart leaps when I see them.

They have all become part of my spiritual library.

The following entry is an excerpt of the liner notes for
In the Heart of the Moon by Ali Farka Toure and Toumani Diabate.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

"A Very Important Meeting in the Realm at the Heart of the Moon"

Toumani is a child who was born in my hands. I knew Toumani as a child and I also worked a lot with his father, Sidiki Diabate, who has contributed a lot to sharing traditional culture between Guinea and Mali. I know Toumani as an artist today, and he is someone I admire and whom I will keep admiring. I know that Toumani has faith, he holds the key to Malian music, and ten million Malian artists live in his shadow.

I am Arma and Toumani is a Griot I am from the Songrai/Peul culture in the north and he is a Mande from the South. It's rare that musicians meet like this from different traditions. But there is something that unites us and it is art and culture, which have no borders. We both work toward the same goal, for the same things, therefore colour is not an issue, and musical differences are not an issue. This did not start yesterday. Whether you are Tamaschek, Peul, Hassabia, Songhai or Sonrai, you are Malian. Wherever you make your bed, you are still Malian.

I don’t need to rehearse with Toumani. I never rehearse when it comes to music, because the inspiration will come to me at the right moment; I know what I am doing, I know what I want. Music is part of the fabric of my body and makes my spirit grow. Sincerely, music quenches the thirst in my heart. It is my gift, my gift of knowledge. It is the same for Toumani: he is a phenomenon of African culture. The Kora is born with Toumani. There is no competition between us, no hate, no jealousy. You cannot be jealous of God and of what he gives. And with his instrument, Toumani is able to do whatever he wants. We never talked about the repetoire. We don’t need to plan ahead. We didn’t need to improvise. It’s perfectly normal that I know this material. First it was his father who told me about it. I know Toumani understands. For me, this African culture is part of the fabric of my life, of my inspiration and intelligence. This recording is a natural wish we all share.

These are songs which belong to a repertoire that goes back to a very artistically fertile period, the 50’s and 60’s. A time between the end of colonisation and the birth of the independence, a very important period. And I am very pround of it. This album was made in order to share our knowledge with the new generation, to bring this period back to life and show the significance of this time and the opportunities we had.

If you know something and don’t want to share it, then you are selfish. You came after someone, and someone else will come after you. You can’t learn the entire sea by heart. No. This is why God created waves in the River and in the Sea. Some leave, and some come. I met Keita Fodiba in 1956 when he was playing this music and he was my inspiration to pick up the guitar. Everyone needs to participate in making sure our culture is healthy, in helping preserve our heritage. And today in Mali, in Bamako, we are working so very hard to fight against the way the Third World is being plundered. And I hope that we will succeed.
-Ali Farka Toure

The first time I heard about Ali Farka Toure was when I heard his music on radio Mali when I was a child. It was really strange music for me , but very good. He’s one of the great, great, great musicians. Nobody does what Ali does. He is one of a kind; he is the lion of the desert, the lion of Niafunke in the north. And I am very proud to have met him and proud to be able to play with him and mix both our types of music. People will be very surprised when they hear Ali play Manding music, which is the music of the Griot people, on his guitar, because Ali is very famous for playing the Blues. He is a prophet of the Blues. All of us were so surprised to see Ali have a connection with this kind of music. He flicked one of his lion’s claws that no one knew about and produced these ancient pieces.

I said to Ali, “We must rehearse.” He said, “No Toumani, we’ll try to work together in a natural way. There won’t be any problem.” He took up his guitar, I had my Kora. Jerry had set up all the microphones ready to go. We played a few notes, chose a key and off we went... Voila. And it was done. In the blink of an eye it was finished. There was never any complication in what we did. We had already reflected on ourselves. There was a way of thinking within us that was strong. I know what I need to do for Ali and Ali knows what he needs to do for me... That’s what’s amazing. It will stay with me forever. That was the essence of this music - this complementary nature.
-Toumani Diabate
It was he beginning of the rainy season in July 2004. We’d set up in the beautiful “Toit de Bamako” conference room on the top floor of the Hotel Mande - looking out over the breadth of the River Niger. Fishermen in their pirogues moved slowly back and forth over the water. Then the pirogues would disappear , the sky would darken and with a great thunderclap, the recording console, the lights and everything else would go out.

Ali and Toumani were sitting opposite each other, close together. Instruments were tuned, microphones were placed, sound levels were set and off they went.

Each of them would suggest or remind the other of a song by playing the first few notes of the melody and that was basically it. Beyond the basic song structures, it was completely improvised. If one of them wanted to make a solo, he’d nod to the other. At times it seemed like they were just sitting on a groove (albeit a wonderful groove), then one of them would start damping a string, the other would follow suit, and you had this very detailed interaction that I didn’t fully appreciate until we got to the mixing stage. Every single note that both of them played was absolutely meant. For three days every afternoon they played for an hour or two. These sessions were very relaxed, but the concetration between the two of them was intense. The order that appears on the record is exactly the order they played it. There were no second takes. Nothing was edited. The only comparable experience I’ve had was the first Ruben Gonzales album, where every note played is what the record is. They hardly spoke during the sessions. They didn’t need to.

Sometimes I had the thrilling sense of eavesdropping on a moment of very special and intimate communication. Listening to this record, you’d think they played together all their lives. Yet they’d played for a total of three hours before this - spread over fifteen years.

I’d be so completely absorbed by the music. We needed absolute quiet in the room while they were recording since the Kora is such a very quiet instrument. A song would end and you’d realize you’d been holding your breath, hypnotized. It was terrible when those sessions ended. I wish I could have afternoons like that everyday of my life...
-Nick Gold
In the Year’s leading up to Mali’s independence in 1960, part of the struggle against colonial rule was the search for a modern - and indigenous - identity. Music played a crucial role in this.

Many musician’s, especially Mande Griots living on either side of the Mali/Guinea border, became involved in an informal cultural movement in which the guitar was the preferred instrument: it could emulate the sounds and styles of the local instruments but was not tied to any one ethnicity or ritual. They developed an acoustic fingerpicking guitar style, drawing on the interlocking techniques of Balafon and the delicate ornaments of the Ngoni. They composed new songs that had a lighter, more popular feel than the old Mande Griot classics, with rolling harmonies and laid back rhythms. The lyrics were often philosophical and often talked about the importance of passionate love, in defiance of arranged marriage, which even today in many parts of Mali remains the norm. Some local writers, such as the novelist Massa Makan Diabate, began referring to it as “Jamana Kura” - meaning “New Age/Era.” It was as much about the feeling and free approach to playing as it was about the songs themselves. It lasted from the 50’s right through until the late 60’s when the music of dance orchestras and apollo bands took over.
- Lucy Duran

(photo credits:Christina Jaspars, Mali)

Friday, November 16, 2007

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Sunday, September 02, 2007

Last Night A DJ Saved My Life

I remember the first time I heard a DJ play: it was in a high school gymnasium in Chicago around 1988. There were so many people dancing like their lives depended on it, that the walls were sweating. I was maybe twelve and everyone else was at least fifteen. I was ecstatic and scared witless... and I've been in love with music and dancing ever since.

When I say the words, last night a DJ saved my life, it's quite literally what I mean. Not last night, but on many another night... I've been lifted, loved and sent home sweaty, exhausted, salty and exalted.

E-Tones, those are his hands in this photo, is a Healer. I cherish him and I long to hear him play again.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

Friday, August 31, 2007

Prayer For A Changing World

I offer you the song in my heart.

I begin the circle of my song in praise of yellow curtains, blissfully expressing
the will of joy in the world.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor all that is, the ecstatic embrace of shadow and light.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I hear the song of our blood. Let us rise up and make a joyful noise!

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I am glad for wonderful friends. We are happy together.

I am glad for big orange kitties, Shelley I love you.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the the North; place of my birth, Earth.
I pray for the healing of the Soil.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the twinkle in my mother’s eye, from which I shall never be parted.
Thankyou for loving me.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I pray for peace in the Neighborhood.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I love you Joshua.

I honor the East; Magnificent Haegl. I pray for the healing of the Air.

I love you Justin. I love you Miranda.

I honor the Honeybee and the Matrix of all Life.
You whisper the story of Astounding Love.

I love you Brandy. I love you Savannah.

JayBee, teacher-friend, I love you.

I cherish the Dawn Chorus.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the twin stars of my day, Baking and Cooking.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

Thank you for strangers at bus stops.

Thank you for mix tapes without playlists.

Thank you for freshly made beds.

Thank you for naked gardening, singers out of tune.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the sacred aggreements with the Animal Realms.
I pray for compassion and understanding.

I honor Owl.

I honor Deer.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the kitchen table, kind friend everloving. Thank you.

I offer prasie and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I hear the song of our blood. Let us rise up and make a joyful noise!

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

Girard, I love you.

I do not fear the darkest unknown.

I honor the loaming.

I honor the seeds and stones and cells.

Heather, sister-friend, I love you.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the South; the families of the Disappeared.
I pray for the healing of Humankind.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I love lifting belly.
I love the coil of my sex.
I love lifting belly.

I honor Bog. Slothbrain.

I cherish lighthouses, storytellers and innkeepers. Thank you.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the West. I pray for the healing of the Waters.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the emerging. I honor the creation story.

Lake Superior, I love you. Thank you for loving me.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the teachers and guides, the monk and the butterfly,
Joy Harjo and the Dalai Lama.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor our Loving Anscestors.

I honor Mary, manifest in the world today.

I honor Buddha, manifest in the world today.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

I honor the wheel of heaven and the axis of time.
May I learn to carry what it is hidden as a gift to others.

I honor the evening star; the great guffaw of deep healing magic.

I offer praise and thanks for all of creation. I celebrate the fullness of life.

God awaken us and awaken within us.
Brothers and sisters, we shall rebuild our lives.

Let there be no strangers here.

*By conniewonnie13

Tuesday, January 30, 2007


Every tool has its quirks and limitations. When a tool works well for a while, then suddenly appears to stop working, frustration ensues. This is the case recently as Blogger, the tool that Connie and I use to publish this blog has updated to a new version. In addition to that, Connie's voicemail is full, which makes communication more tricky. Suffice to say, once we work though these complications, you dear reader, will be treated to more of Ms. Vandeveer's interesting words and images.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Friday, January 19, 2007


"We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth." - Henry Beston, circa 1925

First Duo