An Unexpected Gift in Port Orford

You never know what you might find when you open the door to an antique store.  It’s usually pretty fun to poke around inside one, to see if you might find a treasure or perhaps reignite a memory (Now on sale:  relics from your childhood!).  Whenever we travel, we always like to check out an antique store or two, and maybe add something to one of Dan’s collections (his latest obsession is fountain pens) or find something unique or unusual.  A trip to an antique store is always more interesting to us than the local tourist-trap tchotchke shop. 

But when Dan and I opened the door to an antique store / art gallery in Port Orford, Oregon last week, we never expected to encounter a jamming fiddler and guitarist.  We listened as they finished up their song and then I went out to the car to retrieve the girls.  They were tired from our hike up Humbug Mountain and were more interested in the games on their iPods than a boring-to-them antique store.  I explained that they should hear the musicians in the shop and they agreed to come inside.

When we entered, I introduced Madeleine to them as our fiddle player.  Their eyes lit up to see a young fiddler and they started asking her what tunes she knew how to play.  The guitarist found a fiddle for her to play and tuned it and handed it to her.  She took it, somewhat reluctantly, and they soon agreed upon a song to play. 

They let her take the lead, the guitarist providing the rhythm and the fiddler playing harmony to her melody.  They played three songs together and Madeleine, my introverted daughter, was so much more comfortable playing music rather than speaking, as usual.  To hear these strangers playing beautiful music with my daughter, with the difference in their ages at least two generations and barely a dozen sentences exchanged between them was a lovely experience. 

Madeleine has had the wonderful opportunity the past year to learn music from a teacher and musician who is able to teach her traditional Celtic and American tunes in such a way that she doesn’t need the music in front of her in order to play it.  For her to use her instrument to speak so beautifully to all of us who are fortunate enough to get to listen is such a gift and seems to suit her old soul perfectly.  And like many treasures one might find in an antique store, this was definitely one-of-a-kind.

Significant Mediocrity

I recently attended a writing workshop where Cheryl Strayed was the featured speaker.  She is a woman my age and a beautiful, wise, eloquent soul.  The focus of one segment was a talk she gave on the need to surrender to your own mediocrity.  At first glance, this probably seems like an insulting thing to say to a paying audience, don’t you think?

What we can learn from this, though, as humans, is that we are not always going to do something well.  But we need to do it anyway.  Writers know this - it is why we expect to write many drafts of the same story, poem, or whatever.  By allowing the mediocre draft to appear, word by painstakingly written word, we can then begin to excise, and eventually to reveal, with some measure of grace and graciousness, something at least a notch or two above mediocre.  But without first surrendering to the mediocrity, we have nothing to work with.  It’s a process.

We can know this and yet still refuse to believe it.  For example, for years I wanted to be a crafter:  beading, jewelry making, crochet, knitting, sewing, card making, etc.  I would gather my materials, follow the pattern, and attempt a project.  And at some point, without fail, I would become frustrated and disappointed with my results.  I was a beginner, usually a true beginner, and yet I was constantly comparing my (un)finished project to one of Martha Stewart’s.  I refused, absolutely and unequivocally, to surrender to my own mediocrity.  I didn’t want to actually be bothered by the process and the practice.

I see this now.  But it was a long, drawn-out realization.  There is much about this life like this.  And one of the great and liberating wonders about this modern life is that we have the choice to surrender to a mediocrity of our own choosing.  You don’t have to adhere to generations of your family’s interests or your culture’s traditions if those don’t appeal to you.  (And perhaps there’s a sadness in that, but that’s a story for another day.)  I have chosen to surrender to writing.  Will I ever become a #1 New York Times Bestselling Author like Cheryl?  Pretty doubtful, but I will continue, as she urged all of us at the conference, to bow before the word.  The words I write are insignificant, but as Gandhi said, “Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”

Guest post: Arden, age 9

Crazy Horse

One day I was sittin’ on the range
when my horse started to act kinda strange.
He started buckin’
He reared up in the sky,
And I thought to myself, “Oh my!”
He galloped, scared away the crows.
Then he disappeared out of sight.
I started to get up, thinking
I might catch him, I might.
He came back toward me, chargin’ like cattle in a stampede,
Then jolted to a stop right in front of me.
One day I was sittin’ on the range
When my horse started to act kind strange.

(Arden's 1st place poem, as judged by the Cowboy Poets.  She'll read this at the Cowboy Poet Gathering in August.)

World Book Night 2013

 Tuesday, April 23, was World Book Night 2013.  Just like last year, I applied to be a Book Giver and was chosen to give out my first choice of book, Paulo Coehlo’s The Alchemist.  This year’s WBN titles can be found here.  I had made arrangements to give half of my books to one of our community’s local shelters, Stepping Stones.  Although I could not personally give the books to the families living at the shelter due to privacy concerns, it felt great to drop off the books there, knowing that there was probably a lack of interesting reading material at this point in their lives.

As the sun was setting, I drove to the courthouse square that defines our downtown.  The courthouse itself is an imposing granite structure, built in the Neoclassic Revival style in 1916.  It is still used as the county courthouse.  Surrounded by a hundred or more elm trees, it is the definitive heart of Prescott.  After I parked, I surveyed the square before exiting my car.  The trees had begun leafing out, and there were several clusters of people gathered.  I discarded labels such as homeless vagabond, lapsed alcoholic, teenager with too little supervision, boys playing football, couple walking dog.  Rather than identifying these people in categories I might normally feel compelled to place them, I saw them as potential readers. 

With my box of books in hand, I got out of the car.  It was a warm spring evening and the resident owl was hoo-hoo-hooing into the dusk.  I first approached two men who sat on the curb facing the Vietnam War Memorial on the west side of the courthouse.  On the opposite side of the street is Prescott’s famous Whiskey Row, where I gave my books away last year.  The two men on the curb had an extremely large dog that immediately stood up as I approached.  It wasn’t acting in a threatening way, so I continued, smiling as I explained tonight’s event.  I offered them each a copy of the book, which they readily accepted.  They seemed genuinely surprised and happy on multiple levels:  not only did I acknowledge them, but I engaged them in conversation, I smiled at them in a sincere way, and I offered them something, expecting nothing in return. 

As I wished them well and turned toward another group of people, a large man was approaching.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him begin to run toward me.  He, too, was grinning, as were the men I’d just left.  He called to me, “Whatever you gave them, I want one too!”

I laughed and said, “Of course,” handing him a copy.  He walked over to the other two men and began talking loudly.  They compared the copies I’d handed them.

I wound around the courthouse while the owl made its presence known.  I did not see it although I shifted my gaze again and again toward the trees silhouetted against the darkening sky.  But I could sense it watching over everyone on the square.  I handed out books.  Everyone was receptive.  It was a much different experience from last year, when I stood in one place and waited for people to approach me.  Each person last year was cautious and guarded, not sure if they wanted what I had to offer, even if it was free.  A lot of people turned me down or even refused to make eye contact with me.    This year, the only person who turned me down was a teenage girl who claimed she’d already read The Alchemist, adding that it was “a fantastic book.” 

Finally, down to my last book, I approached an older man seated on the courthouse steps.  He was smoking a cigarette and had arranged several bags of belongs around himself.  He looked content but tired, and I suspected he appeared much older than his actual age.  One last time I explained the event and offered him a copy.

“It’s a book about following your dream.”

He crushed out his cigarette and reached for the book.  He thanked me and said, “That’s right up my alley.”  There was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there when I'd first approached him.

We’ve heard the old adage it is better to give than receive hundreds of times.  But it really is true.  There is much joy in giving and sharing, so much more than our consumer driven society would care to admit.  When I taught ESL at a small Hebrew school, I learned about the eight levels of Tzedakah, a word most often translated as ‘charity’: 

1. Giving begrudgingly
2. Giving less that you should, but giving it cheerfully.
3. Giving after being asked
4. Giving before being asked
5. Giving when you do not know the recipient's identity, but the recipient knows your identity
6. Giving when you know the recipient's identity, but the recipient doesn't know your identity
7. Giving when neither party knows the other's identity
8. Enabling the recipient to become self-reliant

I was reminded of those levels tonight.  Tzedakah doesn’t have the same connotation as charity, though, which in the English-speaking world usually carries the impression of a magnanimous rich person giving to someone less fortunate.  But in Judaism, it is everyone’s duty, not just those  who are more fortunate.  It is an act of justice and righteousness.  I also thought of a friend’s comment when I’d told her that my daughter Madeleine could read.  She said, “She has the keys to the kingdom now.”  And I can think of no better way to advance humanity than by sharing books and spreading the love of reading, person to person.  What if the kingdom were that accessible, to all? 

What book would you share with another, if you could choose any book at all? 

 

My Encounter with the Little Prince

Late one afternoon this past week, my daughters and I made a quick trip into town.  We were going to grab a bite for dinner and stop by our favorite shop, the Peregrine BookCompany.  I had been informed that the copies of the book I’ll be giving away for World Book Night 2013 were ready to be picked up.  Ever since the closing of most of our town’s independent bookstores in the post-Amazon market, and then the closing of a large chain bookstore, we’ve been longing for a decent bookstore.  Peregrine somehow fits the collective fantasy of an independent downtown bookstore for our town, and it’s a big deal for this town to agree on something, as we have seemingly divergent populations:  old ranchers and old hippies, teenagers and transplant retirees, horsemen and mountain bikers, free-thinking artists and conservative Christians, and more of course.  And yet somehow, we all seem to agree that Peregrine is a lovely space.

Every time I enter the bookstore, my heart races because I can scarcely believe it is true, that this beautiful bookstore is here, and that I can come anytime I want, to browse and purchase, to sniff the books.  If you have never suffered a bookstore drought in your life, you are extremely lucky.  You just can’t inhale the scent of book on Amazon.

Just moments after we entered the bookstore, Madeleine peeled away to find her favorite chair in the Young Adult section (“It’s so cushy!”).  Arden and I were looking at Rory’s Story Cubes when suddenly we were accosted by a little red-haired boy, maybe three years old, brandishing a book about monsters.

“I want to show you this,” he commanded, plopping on the floor right at our feet.  He acted as if he’d been waiting for us to arrive, or maybe even as if we’d walked in with him.

Two things went through my mind immediately:

1)  The way this boy talked to me, and the self-assuredness with which he behaved, reminded me of another little boy I loved - the Little Prince - who also made somewhat arrogant and self-centered demands of adults.
2)  One of my favorite lines from the Little Prince, “Quand le mystère est trop impressionnant, on n’ose pas désobéir.” (In the face of an over-powering mystery, you don’t dare disobey.)  What if this red-haired boy were my Little Prince, sent here to teach me life’s greatest lessons?  How could I not do as he asked?

And so, I found myself kneeling on the hard wood floor with Arden and this little boy, just yards away from the cash register counter, looking at the monster book.  He separated each page carefully with his tiny hands, flipping it to reveal another new monster on each page.  We laughed at the silly monsters and picked our favorite attributes.

“This one has funny hair.”

“I like his spots.”

“What a scary mouth and claws!”

At one point, though, my knees began to ache and I looked around in search of a parent of this child, but saw none.  I felt a bit perplexed.  This wasn’t why I was here.  I had things to do, places to go.  But this little boy was so insistent, so certain that I was supposed to be there on the floor, pouring over this ridiculous book with him, and I couldn’t break away.  An older woman walked by with a clerk and acknowledged us in such a way that I believed she must be his grandmother, but she said nothing.  Arden smiled at me and made herself more comfortable on the floor, and so we continued to look at the monster book with this red-haired little prince.  From time to time he told me (he didn’t ask) to read a word or two, or ordered me to help him count with him how many eyes certain monsters had.  The grandmotherly woman walked by again, observing us with practiced eyes.

By the time we reached the end, though, a realization hit me.  I was here to pick up my books for World Book Night, and the whole point of this philanthropic event is to share the love of reading person to person.  I'll be giving away Paulo Coehlo's The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream.  In the book, a young shepherd leaves his home and all that he knows in order to pursue his unlikely and fanciful dream.  On his quest he encounters many people who teach him lessons.   I grasped that this little boy was doing exactly that with me.  I had just met a member of my tribe.  In Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, the title character learns from and teaches the other characters huge lessons about life and love and purpose.  I felt as if I’d been charmed as we stood up and I knew that I’d likely have few encounters like this in my lifetime, that this was somehow an allegory in my real life.  I dusted off my knees and looked at Arden, who was beaming.  She seemed to understand - of course she did - that we were in the presence of something rare. 

 

Our little prince swaggered toward the counter, monster book in hand, and in his self-assured way, announced, “I’m going to check this one out.  It’s really good.” 

I stifled a giggle, as that sounded just like something the Little Prince would say, but I said nothing, knowing that he would not listen to me.  We wandered around the store, re-grouped with Madeleine, asked for and received my box of books.  We didn’t see the boy or the older woman again, but I felt and shared his love of books with my whole being.  And so, with new inspiration and insight, I’ll be giving away The Alchemist on April 23, 2013, to twenty people in my community.  I’m hopeful that they’ll feel that same spark of joy in books that Arden and I shared with the little red-haired boy, and that they’ll find great meaning in the tale of an Andalusian shepherd named Santiago and his quest to follow his dream.