celtic_writer

Where the Words Are Said

The Celts believed that our heads, our minds, are part of our souls.

And that stories connect.

The journey stories, my favorites, told to me in childhood, felt nourishing, odd and brave.

Brendan the Navigator went on pilgrimages to unknown lands in a tiny leather boat. He said Mass on a whale's back on Easter Sunday. When the Devil showed him the pain of hell, Brendan was serene. He encountered a heathen giant whom he baptized, though did not civilize.

When he reached the island of his vision, Brendan found a hermit clothed in feathers.

Brendan was Leonard Cohen, centuries before.

They proclaimed him a saint. But I don't know any of those. I think he was just a guy on a trip who kept his eyes wide, wide open.

My friend Vicky Johnsen sent me a quote the other day. And it sums up the importance of stories told, the ones we remember, the ones we always knew. It is from a man named Michael Meade:

"There is this old Celtic thing, that there is very little difference between a song and a poem, between a poem and a story, between a story and a prayer, so that anytime someone is singing a song, or telling a story or reading poetry to a child, they are also inviting the child into a prayer. There's never a need to talk down to a child at all…because something in the child already knows all this and is waiting to hear it again.

So that parents and teachers who give great stories or poems to children are feeding this old soul that is in the child and are reassuring the child that they have come to the right world, that, yes, the world may be confusing and increasingly chaotic, but this is the world where the words are said."

-- Michael Meade

The Front

Off on another road trip tomorrow. The Mighty Bug and I will motor south, to dwell for a couple of weeks in a Marriott hotel in North Carolina, instructing folks at a health insurance company on how to program applications for the Web.

But I will miss this:

This is the view from my desk at home here in the office. I think it explains what makes up my life these days. A computer, Black Labs, light, music speakers, a calendar filled to the brim. I stop often, put my feet on the edge of the desk, lean back in the chair and watch those dear lads in that Winslow Homer print ("Breezing Up (A Fair Wind)"). There are white clouds all about, and they are flowing forward in a sailboat called Gloucester. They are barefoot, and peaceful as they make white spray on their journey.

Someone told me once our homes explain who we are. Funny. As I've grown older, the areas of my home most people visit are usually picked up, uncluttered, wiped down, straightened up.

It's a front.

I am very cluttered. Most creatives are. We need lots of silence and solitude to make sense of the chaos in our heads so what we create appears just the way it's supposed to...in computer code or through some story or a photo.

My office is a mess. It's mine, and I like it that way. Computer cords and small scraps of paper containing notes of new ideas seem to multiply every day. A Staples CD-R acts as a coaster for the always-filled coffee cup. 'Cause that's what creativity is. Chaos is a food group to those who think.

Road trips are good. They offer the supreme gift of privacy, the freedom of not knowing a soul, of being unreachable if you want to be. The gift of invisible movement through life so you have the chance to remember the meaning of it all.

Cultural Explanations

On this quiet Friday when the sun shone its smiley face all day, friend Quinn McDonald, artist and creativity coach, emailed a question used to help folks jumpstart creativity cells in their brains:

Pick six items in your house. How would you explain these items to a visitor from outer space who doesn’t understand our culture. Write down your answers.

Thankful George Dubya Bush doesn't live here, I looked for six things I could explain to the Martians, should their superior brains ever make the terrible decision of landing here in the yard in Mason Neck.

1) Walt: Black Lab. Canine. Male. 7 years of age. 80 pounds. Sweet, but magna cum laude graduate of Duh University. Walt is unafraid of alien visitors, except the garbage truck and vacuum cleaner. All guests from the outer reaches of the galaxy are forewarned they will be expected to throw Walt's kong toy for him 1.8 million times before they run screaming to their space ship to zoom off at light speed to get away from such earthling madness.

2) Margaret: Black Lab. Canine. Female. 12 years of age. 90 pounds, but don't tell her I told you. She is very sensitive. Never stops wagging tail, even in sleep. If Martians land and demand, "Take me to your leader!" Margaret would smile and bulldoze her big black head against their skinny Martian legs, knock their green bodies to the ground, then proceed to smooch their bulbous heads. She would then get a drink of water and take a nap.

3) Book. A written work printed on pages bound together so one can read and learn. There are hundreds in this house, but only good literature and thought-provoking essays are allowed. All other books get thrown across the room or against the nearest wall. Any Martian visitor would have to read such small tomes as Don Quixote, The Grapes of Wrath, Moby Dick, and other works that are at least 600 pages. Just ask The Ya Ya Sisterhood Book Club of Mason Neck. They want to send me to the moon every time I get my way with a "classic" suggestion for the reading list.

4) Guitar. A stringed musical instrument played with the fingers, or a guitar pick. The sound is produced by vibrating strings, which in turn resonate the body and neck. All alien visitors will be subjected and expected to politely listen to such trad favorites as "Haul Away Joe" and "What Shall We Do With a Drunken Sailor?" and should feel encouraged to participate in the splendid caterwauling. Please make note that Walt does not like the tune "Sweet Betsy from Pike." Methinks it is the reference to "the big yeller dog," but I am not sure.

5) CDs. A small optical disk on which data such as music, text, or graphic images is digitally encoded. There are probably close to 1000 such media in this house, due to music, archived programming jobs and movies. No, Mr. and Ms. Martian, you may not borrow the following music CDs: Sons of the Pioneers (featuring Roy Rogers), The Radiators (from New Orleans), Nat King Cole, any Van Morrison, or EmmyLou/Mark Knopfler. Clapton is also off limits. You always say you will bring them back, but you never do. Light years away. A likely story.

6) Coffee. Seeds that are dried, roasted, and ground to prepare a stimulating aromatic drink. Must be served so piping hot as to scald even the most hardy Martian tongue. Please add cream of the highest fat content. No decaf allowed. Wimps. Please note that my brother-in-law Dave roasts his own coffee, and shares it with family and friends. It is the best coffee I have ever consumed. He will never reveal the method, but the roasting process starts with an air popcorn popper. You didn't hear this from me.

So, all of you out there, what's in your house? The Martians want to know.

Graphic: The Sun by Emma Mary Mankin, age 7. Used with permission, in exchange for an apple fritter.