At the dance crossroads

Posted on May 27, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

I think I’m opening a dance studio in August. I know I said
I’d never do this again, but I’m really think I’m going to. Shoot me.

 Actually, it isn’t going to be a dance studio. It’s going to
be a center for the arts, with the foundation built upon a dance and yoga
program (for starters). I’m setting up a wider umbrella for this business so it
can evolve to include literary arts (writing classes) and other specialty arts
that may lead to teaching many of the things we’ve explored these past few
years – woodturning, basket weaving, soap making, etc…

Mark plans to continue his work in real estate and hopes to
transition to building houses and creating wood arts full time, but he has
agreed to be my ballet teacher a few hours a week afterhours, and he will participate
as a consultant and help out with performances and other endeavors on a limited
basis. Considering the size of our community, I’m assuming the school will stay
small (at least compared to our past success) so his part time involvement will
be perfect. I’ve promised not to drag him into this new endeavor beyond what he
is comfortable with. He misses dance, but not running a dance school. He will
enjoy teaching again, but he refuses to submit himself to dance school drama.
Amen to that.

 I, on the other hand, do miss running a school I’ve been
wrestling with the idea of returning to my profession for several years now,
usually talking myself out of it (I don’t forget the reasons we left FLEX) but I
do need to go back to work – for financial reasons and for my own saniety. As I
told Mark when we first discussed selling our business, if I ever had to go
back to work, this is what I would do. Teaching is authentic work for me –
everything else leaves me feeling sort of dead inside, but working with young
dancers engages me fully, physically, emotionally and intellectually. It’s not
a job, it’s a calling.

 Of course, I am not dismissing my age. I’m still able to
teach dance proficiently, but my years as a dynamic jazz teacher are limited,
fading as we speak. This is why I’m transitioning into a yoga teacher as well,
and I’m designing a school that will provide opportunity to teach writing
classes as well – journaling as a path to self understanding, perhaps. I will
always be able to train quality dance teachers, considering teacher’s training
is my forte, so I don’t fear staffing a dance school with quality instructors.
All in all, at any age I will be a strong director who can plan programs and
choreograph, but I will simply have to evolve as an artist, and make room for
new blood in the area of jazz in consideration of my changing stage of life.
But . . . .not quite yet.

 Our community needs a good arts center desperately. Positive
role models for young women are few and far between here, and other than a few
community sports offerings, there aren’t any healthy activities to keep young
people engaged. Our community has a huge drop out rate – 30% of our young women
get pregnant and married before they are 18! The kids here don’t aspire to more
because they can’t picture themselves achieving greater things and sometimes
they are not even aware of the possibilities in life. I can’t help but feel the
girls in this area need the inspiration, motivation and self-confidence that
can be gained through involvement in a quality dance school. Dance widens a
child’s horizons, and keeps them out of trouble (gee that sounds condescending,
but it’s true). This place needs a FLEX.

 For a long time, Mark and I felt all our hard work and
commitment didn’t make a difference to the kids we taught anymore– society and overly
indulgent parents had tied our hands so we could no longer influence students in
positive ways – It was one of the reasons we chose to retire – but after FLEX
crashed we watched changes occur in our former students, behavior we had to
contribute to the loss of our influence, and we had to admit that even if we
didn’t make the measurable impact we aspired to make, we probably were making a
significant difference in the lives of many children.  Huge revelation!

 So, despite the massive mountain that I will have to climb
(again) to build a school from scratch, I’m going to take on the challenge. I’ve
carefully thought through what I loved and was proud of in our last school, and
what made us miserable and dissatisfied, and adjusted my vision accordingly.
I’ve done my share of soul searching and considered what I am and am not
willing to invite back into my life. I plan to keep the positive elements from
our last school, the terrific energy, creativity and commitment to arts
education alive, but I also have a decisive plan of action that should curtail
the dance school madness that made life a constant frustrating drama. Due to a
variety of factors, which include the general attitude and behavior of people
in my gentle community, the wisdom I’ve gained from past experience, a four
year sabbatical that has refreshed and revived my resilience, and the fact that
we don’t need to support a family of five on this school, and therefore won’t
have to make compromises or grit our teeth and sustain emotional abuse out of financial
necessity, I believe I can develop a school on the principals I believe are
right and true. Something wonderful can happen here.

 When I first started talking about it, Mark gently pointed
out that I’m not the vivacious, kick butt dancer I was at 30 when I opened FLEX.
He said I was too old to be a dance teacher now, and so was he. Dance is for
the young, and we just didn’t have it in us to do the job in the way we once
did. (He said this while watching hip hop dancers spinning on their head on
America’s Best Dance Team, as if I‘d have to be able to do this to relate to
new movement today.) He pointed out that a very important part of what made me
a strong teacher was that students were inspired by watching me dance.  Without that, training dancers would be
difficult. Thanks . . . I think.

 I understood his point. But the more I thought about it, the
more I felt convinced that what I lack in physical prowess as a performer at
this age, I make up for in wisdom. I feel I have more to give as a teacher at
50, thanks to miles of experience and a wider perception, than I ever did at 30.
Twenty years ago I was a newly retired performer who opened a dance school because
it was the only way I knew to make a living. Now, I’m a seasoned teacher who
feels compelled to share her knowledge because I’ve seen firsthand the power of
movement and personal discipline on young people’s lives.  My attitude has changed drastically. At
30, all I wanted to do was make stronger dancers. At 50, my ambition is to make
stronger people.

 I’ve worked with over 10,000 students over the years, and
only a few of them went on to dance professionally. I’m proud of those dancers,
of course, but I’m equally proud of those students who went on to other
professions who now claim their years dancing with us gave them experiences and
life skills that enriched their lives. Looking back, I see how flawed I was as
a teacher in the early years, and how much stronger I was later (and our school
and dancers reflected this). I feel even more capable now that I’ve had the
much needed distance from FLEX.

 Furthermore, it’s not like I have to deal with a learning
curve in starting up a school. I have so much dance school management
experience that the planning and organization is as simple as breathing. I get
to skip all those painful lessons learned through mistakes the first time
around. Ee-gad – if I had to do it all again IN THE SAME STRESSFUL WAY as the
first time I opened a studio, I’d never consider it.  So now, it is a matter of getting in shape, and planning a
schedule that will allows me to be as effective a teacher as I’m capable of
being.

 Yoga has been central to my shifting ideals. It’s changed my
perception of the world, taught me to detach emotionally from stress situations,
and shown me just how physically strong I still am. My body swiftly responded
to the physical asana and I’m flexible and energized again. Dance is returning
to my body as if it never left. Part of the Yoga Alliance training involves
teaching your peers, and the moment I began communicating what should be going
on with the body, I felt at home. Grounded.  I guess you can say yoga reminded me of who I am.

 At first, I was very frustrated because Yoga training is the
exact opposite of dance training, and after a lifetime of studying dance a
certain way, I wasn’t ready to shed my concepts about movement to make room for
a different approach.  Yoga was
unsatisfying. It felt too stationary. Contained. I hated the way there was no
absolute correct way to execute a position. In dance there is right and wrong –
perfection is the ultimate goal and you are expected to do whatever it takes to
achieve the goal – even if it means tearing up your body. In yoga, there is no
right or wrong, only what is right for this body at this time in this place. It
is non-judgmental, non–competitive, and encourages gentle adjustments to protect
the body. Yoga heals, where dance breaks down. The accepting nature of yoga philosophy,
the concern for the individual, is the opposite of dance, sad but true.

 Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop feeling dance was superior. I
love the challenge of the art – the illusive perfection a dancer chases. Deep
down, I admire dance for striving to break the boundaries of the human
condition. And frankly, I’ve always felt spiritually connected to dance, so the
fact that yoga is a spiritual practice didn’t give it extra credit.

 But then I read something in a book by B. K. S. Iyengar
(greatest influence in Western Yoga today) that put my frustration into
perspective. He states:

 “The difference
between yoga and dance is that yoga is the perfect art in action, whereas dance
is a perfect art in motion. In dance there is external expression through
movement, whereas in yoga, there is an intense inner dynamism, to the observer
it may appear static. The movement may be very slight, but the action is
tremendous.”   

 And suddenly I understood the central difference between
dance and yoga. I could tune in to the inner dynamics of yoga, and it felt as
satisfying as the external dynamics of dance. The inner grace and acceptance
that comes from a non-judgmental, non-competitive approach makes all movement
seem beautiful now. Instead of focusing on what isn’t perfect, I’ve begun to see
that imperfection can be lovely too. What counts is the person behind the
movement- the connections the artist makes through movement – deep inner
connections, as well as external connections with the world (or an audience).

 Sounds a bit touchy-feely, I guess, but the lessons I’ve
gained from yoga are powerful. Not a day goes by in the yoga training that I
don’t’ think – I WISH I KNEW ALL THIS WHEN I WAS TEACHING DANCE. Lord knows,
this would have made me a stronger teacher. I could have made better connections
with my students, helped them adapt to movement without so much struggle, and
helped them embrace dance without feelings of inadequacy. All the problems of
wounded egos and the needless drama that’s connected to dance could be
controlled with a yoga mindset.

 And all this helped me overcome my anger and the self-inflicted
obstacles that drove me away from teaching. Now, I’m inspired to create a
school according to a new vision, to help students and parents find peace and satisfaction
within a strong dance-training program. 
I look forward to combining my many years of dance with my newfound
yoga-view to make the dance experience more poignant and gratifying .

  I guess you can
say I’ve mellowed with age – or perhaps I’ve just seen enough that I finally
know what matters. Anyway, I’m ready to combine the eclectic information I’ve
amassed during this four years I’ve been on FLEX sabbatical (the humility and
intellectual growth I received from my MFA, the spirituality from yoga
training, and diverse skills and exciting new concepts I gained from the tons
of art adventures Mark and I have pursued) with my previous dance experiences
to see what kind of old-fart teacher/director I’ll be now. I’m a more
well-rounded person now – and I’ve always said that an artist is only as good
as what they have to say to the world. If all you know is dance – you have
little to say to the non-dancing world at large. I believe a more balanced,
intelligent person is a better teacher, no matter what the subject is.  Well – at least I will try out the
theory.

 So, I’ve been in dance director mode once again. I’ve done
major work on the new Art Center’s website, and I’ve been thrilled to see how comprehensive
the foundation for this school is already. We have lots to draw from – lots of experience,
established material, supportive documents, and defined systems. I’ve even gotten
testimonials from former students, thinking they would be inspirational for
future students, but in fact, they’ve proved very inspiring for me.  It is a great motivator.

 I’ve found a perfect 3000 square foot location for the
school with a very low cost per square foot; a nice size to start because I
know how important it is to keep overhead low until an arts organization is
established. I don’t want financial stress interfering with the integrity of
the school. Mark worked up a design and we’ve received quotes for the build-out.
I’ve written a business plan, a marketing plan, and even done preliminary
schedules. I’ve crunched the numbers, and there is little risk financially,
despite the limping economy. The only question now is, do I really want to step
back onto this particular path again? I haven’t given up writing and I’m still
committed to living a life in balance where family and nature are given equal
time to work. Do I trust that I can run a school without being sucked dry this
time around?

 All systems are go. It’s just a matter of making the motion
to get it all underway.

I’m standing on the edge of the cliff. But I’m a yogi now,
so before I act, I will meditate. I will sit in stillness and wait for the
direction that comes from deep within. Then, I will follow what my heart tells
me is right. 

 

 

 

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Posted in Exploring the Arts. Bookmark the permalink.

Turning Fifty in London.

Posted on April 17, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

My fiftieth birthday was this last weekend. After years of
rounding up my age, actually becoming fifty for real was no biggie, at least
emotionally. (And for the record, I don’t feel at all compelled to round up to
55, at least not yet. Needless to say, Mark is relieved.) 

To celebrate, Mark took me to London.  A few years ago, a reporter was
interviewing us for an article for the newspaper, and during the small talk we
exchanged beforehand, he said, “You must go to Europe, but go before you’re
fifty or you never will.”

 Of course I couldn’t let that go, so as the big birthday
approached, more than once I brought up the fact that I was going to be half a
century old and STILL hadn’t travel overseas.  Mark’s no fool, and he knew that considering he might have to live
with me for the next fifty, he better take me somewhere or never hear the end of
it. Thus the trip to England.  I’ve
always wanted to go someplace with an entirely different culture – different
language, customs and attitudes, but with only five days to get away due to
Mark’s work schedule and my yoga training, London seemed as far as we could go
without spending the bulk of the time on a plane. They may speak English over
there, but at least they have a funny accent and the pound and driving on the
left side of the road offers a pinch of curiosity. I was delighted with the
gift.

 All of Mark’s relatives live in London or nearby cities. We
spent the first night with his cousin, Laurence, and his new, pregnant wife.
We’ve met before in America and instantly hit it off, so this turned out to be
great fun.  If you want insight
into a different culture, the quickest path is to visit the home of a lifetime
resident (and to open a bottle of scotch and let honest banter fly). The next
day, before dropping us off at our hotel in London, he took us to an old
country pub for lunch that was built in the fifteenth century. As you might
imagine, stepping into such a real chunk of history was thrilling for me, so I
wandered around to get a good look at the structure, the rock walls and low
ceilings held up with rustic beams.  
I ran my hands along the heavy oak bar and marveled at the door hinges,
handmade by a blacksmith hundreds of years ago. I pictured this pub as it must
have been, standing alone on a small village dirt road half a days’ drive by
carriage out of London, visited by travelers hundreds of years ago. Cool.

 I ordered a vegetarian Cheshire pie while Mark had the fish
and chips (and ale, of course.) England is definitely a drinking culture and we
were told more than once that Americans couldn’t drink worth a hoot. Since we
hadn’t the inclination or stomach to keep up beyond a day or two, I can’t argue
the point.

 The food in England is different, but it certainly explains
my mother-in-law’s bland tastes. Every meal is based on meat and potatoes, and
in the five days we were there, we hardly ever saw a vegetable or salad unless
we special ordered it on the side, and then the vegetables came boiled to a
pulp to assure there wasn’t an ounce of nutrient left. Ah well, when in Rome… I
tried to order something English everywhere we went. I had fish and chips,
spotted dick, treacle, and bangers and mash. I almost ordered rabbit in
London’s oldest pub, renowned for game dishes, but I just couldn’t quite work
up the enthusiasm for it as I pictured the Easter bunny getting his head blown
off. It was Easter Sunday, after all. 

 For breakfast I ordered the traditional English breakfast,
eggs with beans and sautéed mushrooms, always served with a sausage and a
delicate piece of toast sitting upright in a rack (to assure it comes cold and
dry, I guess).  But the hardest
food adjustment for me was living for five days without a good cup of coffee.
In England you take your coffee white or black. White means you’re served a
latte. Black means you get black coffee, but rest your soul if you want
anything other than skim milk to put in it.  They don’t serve half and half or cream or even whole milk
with coffee in London, so every cup of coffee (always too weak or too strong)
tastes off and there is no hope of repairing it with a dash of something else.
We finally got desperate enough to step into an American franchise – a
Starbucks. I was convinced we could get regular coffee there, but alas, even
this icon of American culture was run differently in London and all they had to
put in the drink was skim milk. I asked if they had anything else for the
coffee, but the fellow working behind the counter tilted his head like I was asking
for breast milk or something. “What else could you want?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

 OK, so in England, one must stick with tea, but even that is
served strangely in my opinion (with milk and clumps of sugar, watering down
the taste, while I am more a lemon and honey sort of tea drinker).  You also don’t drink water in London
because the pipes are so old that it tastes metallic. Everyone pays for bottled
water, usually sparkling and nary an ice cube in sight.  Odd, I tell you.

 The good news is that no one is fat in London, except the
American tourists, of course. I suppose this is because they have no fast food
except a few American standbys, like McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken (all
of which serve very poorly made examples of our traditional junk food). Perhaps
the fact that the regional food is so bland and unappetizing helps too. Heck if
I lived there, I’d never eat and thus be thin (I’d be driven to drink too).

 The weather was typical for London. Rain. When it wasn’t
raining, it was gray and misty. I suddenly understood the description of “pasty
complexioned lords” in every Victorian romance novel I’ve ever read. Ah yes, to
live in London is to be a mole. The savvy London raincoats are stylish and all,
but to live without the sun would be difficult for me. For five days I didn’t
mind.

 I did mind that despite being prepared with all sorts of
converters, my American appliances didn’t work in London. The circuitry in
England, like the plumbing and water pressure, is very weak.  This led to what Mark called, “The
great global curling iron disaster.” 
I couldn’t blow dry my hair or get the wayward ends to curl under in a
controlled fashion. This made me feel like the ugly American, literally. Ah
well. Let the rain come. Wet hair beats wayward frizz any day. 

 I was disappointed by how Americanized the city is. 80% of
the TV they watch is American shows, so turn on the tube and you get CSI, and
other crime dramas. Most all the movies in theaters are American shows
currently open here, like Marley and Me or Monsters verses Aliens.
Even the London shows are just copies of the Broadway hits. I swear I expected
it to be the other way around. No where did we run into a cockney accent, if
anything, the gentle British accent seems to be fading, replaced by the flat
notes of American mainstream. Be careful what you let in to influence the
younger generations, I wanted to tell them.

 Most of the city seemed to me like New York with an accent,
or like another Boston, which makes sense since all our forefathers came from
London and built their new cities in the image of their old, “civilized” hometown.
The cities are even structured the same. Hyde Park is like Central Park, only
smaller. The Thames is like the Hudson River, only muddier. London Bridge is
like the Brooklyn Bridge, (and for the record, it isn’t falling down) the
underground railroad (the Tube) is just like the New York subway. Mark
maneuvered around in it beautifully. I just followed trusting he could figure
it out, and he did.

 But there are things our forefathers didn’t try to reproduce
here – like Westminster Abbey, The palace and royal family or Parliament. These
ancient structures, so ornate and daunting are truly remarkable and give a
glimpse of the world and it’s power structures from long ago.   That was fun to witness, despite
the crush of tourists all determined to spend a few moments with history despite
how “disneyesque” it all seems now. In the end, you can get a better view on a
video documentary than in real life, sad to say.

 There were other disappointments, like when we stood for
hours to see the changing of the guard and it turned out to be nothing more
than 30 soldiers in red marching by us, pausing inside the gate so the band
could play a song. What song did they play, you might ask. The British Anthem?
Actually, it was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. I kid you not. Mark is
taller than I, so he could see what was going on. I looked at the statues of lions in the square and said, “Doesn’t anyone notice that that’s an American song?
Please tell me there isn’t a tin man standing on guard, or a
scarecrow tap dancing to amuse the crowd.”

“No, just a guy swinging his arm ridiculously high and I’m
happy to report that they all are marching on the correct foot.” (Once a dance
teacher, always a dance teacher.) 

Personally, the highlight of the trip for me was the fact
that Mark’s mobile phone, even though he upgraded to a global unit, didn’t work.
I was able to spend time with him “unplugged” for the first time in ages.  I have a cross to bear regarding our
culture’s new reliance on cell phones and Internet communications 24-7. There
is nothing ruder than driving with someone else in the car, or sitting with
them in a restaurant and suddenly your guest is answering the phone or sending
a text. It is as if the person is saying, “Something else is more important
than being in your company, so I think I’ll just ignore you and attend to it. ”
Offends me. I’m old fashion that way.

 Next on the London highlight list would be speaker’s corner
in London. This is a corner of Hyde Park where they used to allow prisoners a
chance to have their last say before they were hanged. The rules were they
couldn’t say anything negative about the royal family, and they had to be at
least six inches off the ground, so as not to be on British soil before they
had their say. 16,000 people were hanged in one day at this spot. The youngest
was only 8.  Can you imagine? Over
the years, the corner was no longer just a place for the condemned. It became a
place for people to air their true feelings about the issues of the times. Now,
on Sundays, people still gather here and anyone standing on a box can voice
their opinions about whatever they want.  Americans take for granted the freedom of speech and we are
used to seeing people exercise that right, but the idea of setting aside one specific place,  a controlled
environment, for allowing the free speech concept is interesting (historically).
I had to see the famed speaker’s corner!

There was a crowd there when we arrived around noon and
about 5 different men standing on a box to have their say. Most of the
conversations were about religion, just preachers on a soapbox, but this may
have been because it was Easter Sunday. 
Still, the crowd wasn’t of a passive nature, and everyone was standing
around arguing and conversing with those on the boxes, sort of like an
intellectual debate free for all. I love it.  I walked up to the crowd around one impassioned speaker and
he suddenly pointed to me and shouted, 
“You miss, do YOU believe in evolution?” (He was arguing against it
apparently.)

I said, “Absolutely.”

Then, the entire crowds turned, waiting to see what I had to
say. I stood there dumbfounded. I didn’t know what was expected of me.  Ee-gad.

 “If you are so
certain that YOU have the answers, tell us all how a fly came into being? How
can a fly exist if we all came from one universal amoeba?  We are different because God made the
fly. Do you believe in God?  If evolution
is true, tell us then how it is possible the fly came into being. Explain a fly!”
he yelled, still pointing at me.

I shrugged and said, “I just got here. I don’t really even
know what this conversation is about….” And the man turned away and pointed to
someone else, diverting everyone’s attention as quickly as he aimed it at me,
and people began arguing the point, laughing and yelling and talking of flies
and God. Mark pulled my arm towards another speaker.  In my mind I was thinking, “Wait! I can explain the fly if
you give me a minute.”

Suddenly a man in the crowd stopped and shouted, “I want to
talk about women and sex!” As you can imagine, many heads whipped around, mine
included.  “I think action must be
taken against women who do not cook!” He yelled. He was trying to draw a crowd,
but most people chuckled and ignored him, more interested in tossing around
ideas of evolution or religious beliefs than discussing whether or not women
should be forced into the kitchen.

Personally, I would have loved to hear the man’s argument,
but again, Mark took my arm and led me away saying,” I already have a women who
cooks so this is of no interest to me.”

He hustled us along, thinking we really should go catch the bus
for our city tour, so reluctantly, I followed him, but the truth is, I could
have stood around for an hour or more listening to those people shouting what
was on their minds. I was amused, curious, and damn entertained by the entire
concept – especially that this public venue for opinion, outrageous or not, has
survived to this day and age.  We
weren’t there long enough to determine if anyone took it as a serious medium
for discussion or if it was just another tourist amusement. I will always
wonder.

 Of course, since then, I keep thinking about that man
pointing a finger at me and asking me to explain a fly. The fact is, I CAN
EXPLAIN A FLY, and if I’d been there any longer, I would have liked to try. Unfortunately,
I was just caught off-guard. I went to speaker’s corner thinking I’d be a
spectator, and so wasn’t prepared to interact. But given a chance, I believe I
could get that jovial, laughing crowd to agree with my opinion once I started
in about natural selection, reproduction, the gene pool, and Darwin’s theory. Let
an American have at ‘em, I say. An impromptu public debate, all in good fun,
would be great entertainment. I’m a cheap date.

 If I lived in London, I’d go to speakers corner often, just
to stretch my intellectual muscles and to laugh with others at the audacity of
some people who not only believe some pretty far fetched ideas, but also are
passionate enough to make a public special of themselves over it. Especially in a country where most people are rather proper and reserved – the contrast alone
makes it an interesting cultural spectacle. Like a steam valve for the
repressed proper Englishman.

 Anyway, London was lovely; a novel place to go that gave me
an entirely different perspective on the world. We took plenty of pictures, but you will have to wait for them until I have a day to download. 

It is easy to romanticize
foreign travel, but in truth, the world is getting smaller all the time and
tourism robs you of what you are really seeking when you go so far, at least
for me. Good to discover.  I left
satisfied, not yearning to see Paris or Italy or Timbuktu (at least for
awhile). We loved the trip, but we both agreed that next time we decide to go
someplace far away, we will choose Glacier park before every glacier has
melted. Nature is a jewel far more precious than those on the Royal family’s
crown, after all.  If nothing else,
travel reminds you of how fortunate (and spoiled) Americans are. Our open
spaces, diverse choices, and luxurious accommodations and consumer goods cocoon
us, setting the bar unreasonably high regarding what is a normal standard of service
or living. A reality check is always good for your cultural ethics, like tuning
up your car to keep it running smooth. We Americans must appreciate what we
have, and at the same time, be reminded that we have too much and need to stop
the madness. Perspective is important.

 I could say more about London and my big birthday adventure,
but I must go do my yoga homework. Tomorrow I return to round three of my
intensive yoga weekends, and due to all the traveling I’ve been doing, I’m not
as prepared as I should be. Shame on me. Ah well. I love all I’m learning about
the eight limbs of yoga (beyond asana). In fact, the ideology makes many of my
core beliefs suddenly fit together.

 Do I believe in evolution? Damn straight
Brit boy. Flies be damned. My ever changing life and shifting view of the world
is proof of it.

 

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My Yoga Journey begins

Posted on March 30, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

This weekend I began Yoga training. I will share a bit about
the experience – at least my reaction to it.

 It is amazing to me that even after hours spent doing
intensive yoga poses over and over again, I wake up the next day and nothing
hurts. That is a beautiful and remarkable thing about yoga, and the best
tangible evidence I have that practicing is truly good for you, body and soul.

 Dance, on the other hand, hurts all the time, no matter your
age. I suppose this is because dance is about defying nature’s limitations and
pushing your body beyond the limits in an effort to create a visual image that
is illusive and idealistic. Perfection is the dancer’s goal, and the artist is
expected to suffer to achieve it. Between you and me, I love that about dance.  I hate what the art does to your body,
breaking it down, but it seems worth the end results. The fact that not
everyone can dance is one of the things I admire about the art form. To become
a dance artist requires soul, physical strength, and a gift from God. Dance has
always been, and always will be, my true calling, so I love it despite its
flaws.

 Yoga, on the other hand, works within the framework of the
body’s natural design, and the mental relaxation and breathing which is central
to good technique forces the student to relax, thus avoiding injury. A yoga
student is taught to listen to his or her body and adapt poses so there is no
stress on joints or muscles. In the opposing dance universe, a student is
taught to suck it up and suffer for art’s sake. Different attitude. I don’t
suppose I need to mention that there I am in yoga class pushing beyond what is
comfortable on my 50-year-old body in every pose, because I can’t shake the
idea that I’m not making progress unless I hurt. Dancers are not only familiar
with physical abuse, but they revel in it because pain is often the path to
improvement. Sick creatures, us dancers.

 I think I am an annoying yoga student. Not by choice, but by
nature of my personality and previous life experience. I ask too many questions
of a technical nature, and the answer I get is always, “it depends” or “You’re
over-thinking things. It’s not important.” Since over thinking happens to be a
problem with me in many areas of life, I’m sure the evasive answers I receive
are a fair response. Still, I am sometimes very frustrated with the lack of defined
answers to my questions. Mostly, this is in regards to the mechanics of yoga
movement. We move from one pose to the next, and I ask about what exact
positions we should move through during the position. Is it better to have a
flat back or to roll through the spine? Should the eyes lead or follow after
the pose is stable. The answer is, “It depends.” It depends on the student, the
body type, the mood of that particular practice, and what I want to achieve at
this moment in time. It depends on what feels right and good. Some yoga
techniques are more defined, and perhaps studying one of those methods someday
would suit me better (hint, hint), but in this particular yoga method we believe
in adaptability and less defined structure.

 Meanwhile, I’m thinking the hell with what feels right and
good, I just need to know what IS right and good adhering to yoga standards
because then, come hell or high water, I’ll master it in that way.  As you can see, I have a way to go
regarding my gentle yogi-ness.

 In dance, there is an ideal, a defined perfection that a
student is always working towards, so naturally I want to know what the yoga
ideal is so that I can help students, through modified poses or whatever
methods required, to achieve greater skill. And in the back of my mind, I’m
thinking a student with great potential might come along and he or she will
need more advanced coaching, and I want to be prepared. All this makes my
questions seem pushy and too focused on achievement-oriented goals, a very unyoga-like
approach. I’m sure the teachers want to slap me, but that wouldn’t be yoga like
either, so instead they smile at me with love and shake their head with “you
don’t get it yet,” tolerance.

 I then shut up, reading the gentle frustrationin their eyes
and think, OK, I’ll shut up. I get it academically, but setting goals for a
student, having an objective for the class still seems important to me.  So shoot me. Clearly, I’m going to have
to work on this “total acceptance, no judgments, no expectations” element of
yoga training. I love and admire the attitude in theory, but because I’ve
always been result driven, the gentle approach to movement isn’t going to come
naturally. So this is something I will work on.

 There are other elements of yoga Asana (the physical) I
adore. There is a gentle touch used in correction, and the loving, non-judgmental
attitude where you can do no wrong is alien, but it’s remarkably admirable. I
hope to adapt and evolve as a teacher by learning this approach to teaching
movement.

 Yoga training is not just about the physical. It is about
spiritual practice as well. You must define “intention” for your practice and
your life. When I told Mark that we spent the afternoon discussing our
inner-most fears and desires, and I think I disappointed my instructors in this
area, because I was one of the few who didn’t break down in tears and expose
interior pain (not because I can’t or won’t but because honestly, I don’t feel
broken inside), he sighed and said, “Honey, the fact is, you are very
sensitive, but you are never vulnerable. Ain’t nobody gonna make a big
yoga-crybaby out of you.” (He said this not as an insult to those who expose
their feelings in this safe setting, but to hold up a mirror and make me laugh
at my own foibles- and it did.)

 “What are you saying? That I’m not able to let down my
guard? That I’m too pig-headed to go through yoga training in an open way?”

 “Well, Denver and I were just now wondering how you were
doing. She was saying, “Does mom have any idea of what she is getting into,
that she’ll be thrust into a touchy feely environment that will be more than a
little challenging considering her nature?”

 I think I sputtered a bit over that.  

 Mark went on to explain that he knows me well enough to
understand I have great empathy and feeling for others, but personally, I rely
on inner strength to deal with the world, and that’s not conducive to the
exercises used in self-revelation programs.

 Them’s fighting words, but then, that’s my problem, isn’t’
it? I am not a victim, but a warrior, and admitting it comes across as if I am
in denial or as if I’m not honest enough to reveal my innermost pain and
suffering.  The truth is I would
reveal my misery if I felt feelings of loss or worthlessness inside, really I
would, but damn if I’m not fairly pleased with myself and my life at this
particular place and time. Of course, I’m not always satisfied in all ways with
my existence, but perfection is unattainable and I believe I’m doing the best I
can with what I have to work. That is the best a person can do, and I won’t
beat myself up because life isn’t perfect.

 In choosing an “intention” I spoke of my wanting to
reconcile my relationship with food – that I felt strongly about industrial
farming and I wanted the strength to kill a turkey at the end of my yoga
training. The teacher thought I was striving for comic relief, and wasn’t
pleased. He asked me to redefine what I was trying to say in a sacred, soulful
way. I just couldn’t explain how seriously I felt about my relationship with
food – that I didn’t think being a vegetarian or a vegan is the answer, because
I rather eat a steak (despite a factory cow suffering) than a tomato because I’ve
learned 97% of tomatoes eaten any season other than fall comes as result of
forced slavery (in AMERICA, ya all.) I want to live authentically to my
environmental and ethical beliefs, and I worry about human suffering more than the
effects of food choices on my personal health (I’m so sick of everyone’s life
purpose rolling back around to me, me, me. Time to think not what the world can
do for us, but what we can do for the world, oh selfish ones.) So, since
killing turkeys is not yoga-like, I let the food thing go, but deep down, that
is the one thing I am truly wrestling with inside. (Food ethics, not killing
birds)so I think that qualifies as my “intention”. The problem is, the world
had gotten so off kilter regarding food production that there is nothing left
to eat if you want to eat morally (not to be confused with eating healthily.)
So it is a complex issue.

 Mark reminded me that the people in my seminar are all
coming from a different place – the place where we were four years ago. They
are living in a stress filled environment, with disappointments and
frustrations at every turn.  They
are still slaves to environmental conditioning, consumerism, social
expectation, bla, bla, bla. “Remember, four years ago, you were there too. You’d
be the biggest yoga-crybaby in the universe back then, because as I recall, you
were depressed and sad all the time.

 Oh yeah. That was me. But it’s not me anymore.

 I tried to
explain myself to one of the instructors. I said, “I feel like a dog that got
hit by a car and crawled under a bush to lick her wounds. For me, those 18
years of obsessive work and living in the rat race was like standing in the
highway with lights coming at me. Add to that the constant drama and personal
attacks that came with running a dance school, a midlife crisis and a desperate
desire for adventure, and life spun out of control. That was like being hit by the
car. So we walked away from everything and moved to 50 acres for a couple of
years of solitude, peace and nature. The most productive thing I could do was
engage in gentle interaction with innocent animals. That was me crawling under
a bush and licking my wounds. But now, I’m emerging, healed – feeling strong. I
feel like me again, only a wiser me with more diverse life experience adding to
my inner resources. I’m proud of where I live, how I live, and I’m grateful for
the authentic life we’ve created. I have goals again, hopes.” 

 When asked to come up with one word to describe how I feel
about myself, I said “strong.” This did not go over with the mediator of our
group. He shook his head and said, “No, another word.”

 I instantly knew that “strong” wasn’t acceptable because in
this yoga-world of peace, love and self-acceptance, “strong” sounds too
forceful and aggressive. It is a word associated to people who cover up their
pain with feigned control or something. But honest to God, strong is what I
feel, and I’m not denying something else inside, at least not that I know of.  Strong is not a cover-up for vulnerability,
or a way of sheltering myself from the world. I’ve been beat up too, so I know
what it is to feel shattered. But sorry, I’m just not shattered anymore.

 Now, least I give you the impression that I felt
disapproaval from my instructors, let me make it clear that simply isn’t
true.  Yoga is based on the “you
can do no wrong” viewpoint. It is about total acceptance, approval, and
unconditional love for your fellow humanbeings. But accepting and loving a
student who has some resistance is another thing entirely from their being a
joy to teach.

 The mediator looked at me and said, “What you really want is
for people to love you, right?”

 I said, “Of course, who doesn’t?”

He told not to be flippant and to repeat that I want people
to love me with reverence and truth. So I did.

 And you know what? Repeating that sentence in a solemn way
was the first time I felt like a phony. I know that was not his intention, and
that he is sincerely trying to help me reach a greater truth, but it felt like
he was taking a stab at a common “issue” when in fact, I believe everybody
wants to be loved, so my wanting it too is no revelation. I don’t feel a
desperate need for love and wanting to be loved isn’t a problem because it
motivates me to act differently than I want to act.  Heck, I already feel loved, by my family, friends and
students. What really motivates me, but I couldn’t it say to him, was my one
core belief:  that the strong must
take care of the weak – that we are not all given the same gifts when we are
set upon this earth, and I feel I’ve been extremely blessed with strength (and
some hard-gained wisdom), and I’m designed to tap into that inner strength and
use it to help others lead authentic lives.  My purpose. Ee-gad – that sounds arrogant, but it’s how I
feel.  Strong – and a champion of
those that need help.

 I was told to find a word that defines me. I said I hoped I
was inspirational. My mediator said, “Then voice out loud that you are
inspirational.”

But I couldn’t. I shrugged and said, “I don’t think anyone
can slap a label on themselves and suddenly be what they proclaim. That’s pure arrogance.
I think all a person can do is ASPIRE to be inspirational. I can’t control how
the world receives me, but I can commit myself to trying to be inspirational,
and I do.”

 He was willing to accept that, or else he was ready to give
up on me. Like I said, he is always loving and supportive so he wouldn’t say or
do anything to make me feel I failed in the exercise, but I sensed that he
wanted more from me. 

 And so describes Ginny in yoga training. I know I am a tough
student and probably not the kind the teachers enjoy working with. This program
is supposed to be life affirming and life altering, but since I do not seem to
need of drastic attitude or a life shift to find contentment, working with me
is bound to feel less fulfilling to someone who has devoted their life to
leading the lost to the alter of yoga. Nevertheless, that does not mean I won’t
get something important from the seminar.

 Despite that I’m not headed for great life revelations (or
at least I don’t think I am) I love yoga training. I love learning new things,
seeing the world from a new angle and probing the mind and attitude of people
that approach life differently than I do. I marvel at the loving, open,
accepting attitude of the teachers, for they are role models that remind me I’m
sometimes cynical and have a great deal to learn about unconditional
acceptance.  So, I proceed with an
open mind, knowing I’ll embrace what rings right and true for me, and discard
the rest. That is the how we grow, picking through ideology because we each
have diverse life experiences that define truth, as we know it. There is no
universal truth. There is only what works for us independently. 

 They have ceremonies in the yoga tradition, sort of like a
“coming of age” proclamation. As people define their intention, they are ready
for their ceremony. I seriously doubt they will find me ready for a ceremonial
confirmation anytime soon, if my first seminar was any judge. Perhaps I’ll
never seem worthy (which means I wouldn’t graduate). What am I supposed to do,
fake vulnerability? Pretend I believe we should all be vegans so I don’t have
to kill my turkeys?  Make my
intention learning to embrace total acceptance , which wouldn’t be so bad
except that I believe true faith comes after you ask hard questions of any
ideology.

 I think people come to this yoga training because they are
at a crossroads in life and they are seeking answers, support and permission to
change their world. They feel broken and in need of healing and support. But I
am a different case. I was broken and needed healing four years ago, so I
shucked my life and slinked away to reflect and act on what I believed is
important. I filled my inner longing with animals, an MFA and nature. I changed
my view of the world by immersing myself in a new culture, changed my
relationship with food and consumerism, gave a little something back through literacy
work, and enjoyed a period of few demands for the first time in my life. I
wrote a book, and redefined my relationships with others. Now, I’m ready to
re-enter the world and I’m deciding how. I’ve come to yoga training not because
I’m seeking answers, but because I found them. I came because I want to add to
my arsenal of resources, because I’m ready to make a difference, and I’m
seeking just the best path to do so. Yoga seems a natural addition to my
skills, a way to help others find acceptance and peace and physical awareness.
It helps people learn who they are, what they want, and gives them the strength
to pursue happiness– which is what I love about writing (and dance) too.

 This right of passage that Yoga is supposed to unveil– this
enlightment, is something I’ve already experienced or at least I’m well on the
path to understanding. So, while I’m probably perceived as arrogant and a
really unauthentic yoga student who is missing the point, I think I get the
point more than most. In fact I’m of the opinion that some people who are very
quick to embrace ideology without questioning it or testing the perimeters are
the very people who only receive a surface understanding of that ideology. And jumping
in with both feet on day one without reservation is a habit of people who can
just as easily replace that ideology with the very next one that comes along,
cause it’s the fun of the drama and the IDEA of yoga they love more than the
kind of love that comes from a deep understanding and appreciation for the
reality of the ideology. I am different. I wrestle with ideology, challenge and
dissect it, so that when and if I embrace a new view of life, I do so with sincere
faith and conviction because I couldn’t rattle the truth of it.

 So, I am absorbing the essence of yoga on many levels,
intellectual, physical and emotional.

 Perhaps it is a matter of my learning style. While gaining
my MFA, I was a resistant student. One would even say I wasn’t cut out for the touchy-feely
literary environment with it’s high brow attitude and passionate definitions of
what is or isn’t good, regarding literary verses commercial literature. But I
emerged changed from the training, moved beyond description. I asked lots of
inappropriate questions, challenged the methods, the teachers and readings. I
couldn’t accept that certain masterpieces deserved respect simply because
academics claimed these writings captured the human condition. Sometimes I
couldn’t help but think economics, social attitudes, mass literary hysteria and
the close-knit cultural attitudes of the movers and shakers in the literary
world were responsible for the reputation of a piece rather than it’s true
merit. And if I didn’t stand in awe of the classic masterpieces, I was told I
didn’t “get it”. Perhaps they were right and I didn’t get it because I wasn’t
intellectual enough, or brilliant enough, but to this day, I think there’s an
element of the emperor’s new clothes in academia. A true individual thinker
(which I hope to be) shouldn’t be afraid to voice an opinion contrary to what
is the sophisticated norm feels for fear that it will make him or her appear
“stupid” or unenlightened. The new me rather sheer a sheep than be one, ya
know. But the fact that I wasn’t an easy student didn’t mean I wasn’t a serious
student. My MFA was the most poignant, life altering challenge I’ve ever
undertaken, and I’m grateful to my teachers, the program and God for leading me
through the process.

 I think it will be the same with yoga.

 So, I’ve begun my four-month journey to become a yogi. I
won’t write about others in the class, beyond saying they are all admirable,
lovely individuals. Their journey is not mine to share, but I feel there is
nothing wrong with sharing my own revelations, experiences and failures. Writing
about a thing clarifies it for me and  lets friends go along for the ride and hey, I’m not shy about
admitting that I fumble ungracefully through new things. But I will say the
teachers are wonderful people with earnest intentions, admirable skill, and positive,
encouraging attitudes, and that makes the introduction to yoga a lovely
experience.   I have a week of homework that includes reading, preparing a short lecture/report on the first chakra, taking a long walk in nature (after fasting) and daily practice. As they say in yoga sessions when you’ve made a commitment to your revelations – “I’m in”.  

 Namaste

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One story ends

Posted on March 27, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

After 3 plus years, and lots and lots of diligent work,
Kathy has decided she is ready to take a break from our reading project. I’d be
lying if I didn’t admit her decision disappointed me, but it is my own fault. I
gave her the out.

 Last week one of the women who work in the literacy office
stopped me in a store to comment on how remarkable she considered my success
with Kathy to be. She said none of the other tutors could seem to keep their
students interested beyond a few months, and in fact, every other reading team
had faded away. In her opinion the problem was the teacher’s manner and
approach to the task. These tutors, while having the best of intentions, come
in toting briefcases packed with homework, a determined set to
their jaw, a schoolmarm air, and a non-nonsense attitude. They’re going to be
great reading tutors- do or die.

 I’m not that sort of teacher. I’m just as likely to come in
with a book of jokes as a book of poetry, or a basket of cooking items to give
chocolate chip cookie homework. I shoot the breeze with my student and take an
interest in her life, centering all our work on practical application stuff
that I hope will enhance her life at a non-literary level. For example, we
filled out an order form for the food bank one week and I bought Kathy
groceries for the holidays. It was a way to challenge her math and writing
skills while also helping her family, and teaching her how she could manage her
family food budget better.  I made
her keep a date book, a diary, send Christmas cards, and taught her to play beginner
word games on a computer (which we gave her when we upgraded ours at home). I
enrolled her in a craft class at the local arts association and made her write
a page about the project as homework. I got her a gift card to a clothing store
for her birthday (and since she has never had a bank account or credit card, I
had to teach her how to use it too.) And all these things felt like fun rather
than work, so she kept learning, albeit in a less structured way.

 It was kind of the same principal that was behind our
successful children’s dance program. Mark and I believed learning dance basics
could be camouflaged in fun activities, so we created a colorful, inviting environment
with props etc… to take the place of the traditional youth dance lesson. I then
wrote the syllabus, lectured at seminars about how well the approach worked in
today’s “instant gratification world” and we built a successful business on the
theory. Meanwhile, teachers who wanted to be taken seriously still swore by the
traditional dance programs they trained in a million years ago, so they pooh-poohed
and criticized our approach saying it was commercial nonsense, and that we were
“selling out” while they were teaching “serious” dance. All the while, Mark and
I were training better, more committed dancers, many who have respectful dance
careers today, and we built a school that was an artistic and financial success.
Results say more than trying to impress people by adopting an “I’m legitimate”
serious dance person attitude, in my opinion. Anyway, we always thought it was
weird people couldn’t see how well our fun approach to dance worked – and it
was always a source of frustration that we had to defend our methods over and
over again.  Only after we left the
dance world did people proclaim our brilliance and the great loss the Hendry’s
retirement was to the dance world. (Ain’t that a kick in the Lycra pants.)

 Anyway, that experience taught me that while I could appear
a more intellectual reading tutor if I wanted to wave my MFA around and be all
scholarly, demanding grammatical correct assignments, tests and worksheets, I should
follow my instincts and take another approach. I wanted to teach reading the
way I taught dance – with joy and a love of the craft the ultimate goal. After all,
I could sense the reluctance of my illiterate, repressed student the first time
I pulled out flash cards. It makes sense – if she didn’t take to traditional
education the first time when laws forced her to attend, why would I assume
she’d embrace it as an adult when she had the power to leave?  I had to change the way she viewed
education, and make the process appealing. So, that is what I tried to do, and
I ended up with the most successful student to date in our literacy program because
of it. Kathy not only learned to read, but she lectured at the schools, in the
prison, and became a symbol of what could be done if an illiterate person is
willing to do the work required. Of course, it’s not like she is a college professor
now or anything that would make her a candidate for a Hollywood Hallmark movie.
She only reached the third grade reading level, but she can now read her bible,
school newsletters and mail. She can read the labels on things she buys in the
grocery store and read street signs. She has a basic understanding of a
computer (which in this world is necessary to get by since even library card
catalogues and driving tests are given on the computer now.) She functions well,
surpassed her husband and siblings reading levels, and has intentions to
continue her studies on her own. God willing, she will continue to improve. And
lets not forget that she gave up drugs in the process, changed her parenting
techniques for the better, became a healthier person and a contributor to
society. Only thing I couldn’t do was get her to stop smoking.

 I was flattered by the nice comments the woman from the
office said about my work with Kathy. I responded that I was just lucky- I got
an enthusiastic student with a positive attitude, so it was easy.

 “She wasn’t so positive when you started. I remember her.
She was like all the others that walk through our door, having problems with
drugs and low self-esteem. She had no teeth, bad hygiene, and if you recall, she
missed the first three lessons without calling, so she wasn’t all that committed
at the start. YOU made the difference.”

 Well, that gave me a big, fat, conceited reading-tutor head.
Perhaps she was right and I was the reason Kathy held in there so long – at
least a little. 

 Then, just to prove her point, the woman marched into our
next lesson and said, “Kathy, you’re the longest running and most successful
student we’ve had in this program. Do you think you would have stuck it out
this long without Ginny as your tutor?”

Kathy said, “I would have quit a long time ago if I was
paired with any of those other tutors. I’m here because Ginny makes learning to
read easy. I never feel stupid with her, and even when I don’t do the homework
she wished I’d do, she is easy going and encouraging and never makes me feel
badly.  She applauds what I get
done rather than reprimanding me for what I don’t do. If I felt pressured to do
more, I’d probably have given up on this whole scene long ago.”

 The woman from the office gave me an “I told ya so” grin.

 When she left, Kathy and I talked about all we had
accomplished, which lead to a frank discussion where I admitted I felt we were
sometimes just treading water, and perhaps I would be a better tutor if I were
a little more demanding.

After three plus years, we might want more results, and I
feared we were growing stagnant – I told Kathy she should consider enrolling in
a formal class in the GED program or something to provide new challenges and
intellectual growth. We couldn’t just keep meeting forever and ever and staying
with the status quo.

 “I could do more, and I know I should, but sometimes, I just
feel overwhelmed with it all. I’m pretty happy with what we’ve done already. I
don’t really aspire to much more.”

 In response to that I said (kick me please) that if she ever
wanted to take a break we could, and that I didn’t want her to continue showing
up for ME – and that after all we had accomplished, her stopping wouldn’t be a
failure, but just a sign that she had gotten what she needed from me – we could
always get back together later, even if it was a year or two later, to pick up
where we left off, if and when she felt ready to resume her studies.

 She said she loved meeting me every week, and that our
tutoring sessions were not just about reading, but about friendship too.  I thought I had at least laid a
foundation for some kind of evolution in the future, and perhaps she would
think it over and might even decide it was time to pour on some steam.

 But don’t ya know, she came in the very next week and said,
“I thought about our conversation. If you were serious about my being able to
take a break, I think I’m ready. But I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.
What I want to know is, can we still meet once in a while for coffee or
something? I don’t want to lose you as my friend.”    

 “Of course. I’ll take you to lunch. I’ll make you read the
menu and if you start slipping and can’t make out the words, I’ll pop you
upside the head and make you come back to lessons,” I said, making her laugh.

 So, we decided to put an end (or a temporary pause) to our
lessons. I knew our break was inevitable and natural, after all, we’ve been
doing this for three and a half years consistently, and I’m supposed to be her
tutor, not a crutch – but still, the reality that our work was finished plunged
me into depression for about a week.

 Why? I worry that Kathy will slip back into ignorance, like
the character in Flower’s for Algernon – which isn’t fair to her at all,
because it shows my lack of faith that she will retain her reading skills. But
I also know when we take breaks for Christmas or summer, she does take a step
backwards. What if she stops all those habits I nag her to do – the ones that keep her reading daily? I also worry that without our weekly pep talks and
my ongoing influence, she will fall back into her old habits and maybe even get
involved in drugs again. Not that I’m some kind of knight in shining armor, but
having to face me every week has to help keep her straight. Surrounding yourself
with pulled together people (If I may dare put myself in that category) is a reminder
that there’s a world beyond the limited, repressed existence she’s been
trapped in for so long.  Sometimes
the company you keep does make a difference.

 I guess it is fair to say I feel the loss for selfish
reasons too. Kathy was the one thing I did in my life here that wasn’t self-serving.  I mean, I take care of my family; I go
out of my way to do kind things for my elderly mother-in-law. I give to good
causes, and volunteer for community events now and again. I’m your basic
good-person, as everyone with any sensitivity from my background tends to be.
But Kathy was a serious, long-term commitment to something that didn’t have any
positive rebound for me, other than my feeling good about helping someone who
was less advantaged than I. Teaching her to read took thought, time and
attention away from my own interests, and watching her life change was tangible
proof that my life wasn’t just some endless quest to enhance my own existence.
Because of Kathy I knew I would leave the world better than how I found it.

 I’ve no doubt some new cause will slide into the empty space
in my heart where Kathy took residence. I told the school I’d be willing to
take on another reading student, and perhaps that will happen, but deep down I
feel I’ve already had that experience and perhaps it is time to engage in
something new and different. I just don’t know what.

 What I do know is that Kathy taught me as much as I taught
her. It was through Kathy that I learned the most about the Appalachian people
and the very different socio-economic class that surrounds us here – and I
learned what I know about these people not just intellectually by reading about
our differences or watching them from afar, but by intimate involvement that
forced me to question my preconceived notions and prejudices. Kathy also taught
me to look at the English language a new way and to see the world through new
eyes. She is an important part of my memoir – a very special friend, one without
pretense or competitiveness or even expectations – that made her different from
any female friend I’ve ever had. Our conversations were livelier and more insightful
than any I’ve had with intellectuals over cocktails at some highbrow event. Yes,
Kathy made me think . I’ll miss her.    

 So, I’m feeling sort of low…. Like I’m not of much use to
anyone now. I suddenly miss my passionate dance students, my work with downs
syndrome kids, my involvement with literacy. I feel isolated and sort of empty
as if my life needs a bigger purpose than writing (for myself) or toying with
animals (for myself) or doing laundry and cleaning house (for my family, which
in turn is for myself too).  Suddenly,
I feel compelled to buy a cow (not for me, silly, for a family in a third
world), or go build a house with habitat for humanity or something.  Amazing how a little thing, like
meeting one little woman a few hours a week, can make such a difference in how
you feel about your time on earth.

 Anyway, I am no longer teaching someone to read. I am
open and eager to see what will come next.

 This weekend I begin my Yoga Teacher’s Training, the first
of nine weekends that involve two twelve-hour sessions on a Saturday and Sunday. I got a hotel room for
this first Saturday because I’m guessing that after holding warrior poses all
day, I won’t be able sit much less drive the two and a half hours to get home.
I’m not the vivacious young dancer with the indestructible body I had at 30
anymore, sorry to say.  Hopefully,
all that meditation I’ll be practicing will help me survive the muscle twinges.
Meanwhile, I’m armed with books on Yoga medicine, yoga theory, anatomy and
more. You know me, read, read, read, whenever a new subject tweaks the mind. As
if I might be able to think my way through the work ahead…  but I also know intimate experience is
going to teach me more than any book, so I can’t wait to get into the training
sessions, meet the experienced yogi’s and be with other people starting a new
journey just as I am. The people in this course are hand selected by essay and
interview. Bet they all have interesting stories. You can bet I’ll find out.

 Perhaps this is the new door I’m meant to walk through to
lead me to something new and meaningful. Perhaps Kathy’s disappearance from my
life was meant to come at this juncture, clearing the way for me to grasp onto
something new  – something I’m meant to do – maybe even something yoga connected. 

Or maybe that is wishful thinking. 

Gee, I hate a void, especially when its in the soul.


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The Great Turkey Experiment

Posted on March 24, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

I embarked on a new personal challenge yesterday. I call it, “The Great Turkey Experiment”.

I brought home five adorable, three-week-old turkey chicks. Three of these chirping innocents are bronze turkeys, the kind that will grow up to look like the traditional birds featured in your average Thanksgiving décor. The other two are a less hefty breed of turkey that will grow up to be snow white with a more delicate physique. The personal challenge? I’ve got six months to work up the courage to eat them. If I can’t do it, I’m going to become a vegetarian. It’s the principal of the matter. 

Ever since we bought farmland and embarked on this journey towards a self-sustaining lifestyle, my relationship with food and the environment has changed. Eating locally, choosing organic foodstuffs, and recycling is all the rage now, so naturally I’ve joined the ranks of all the other enlightened Americans who carry cloth bags to the supermarket to carry home pricey “certified organic” produce and “free range” chicken breasts. Must do my part to save the planet and embrace a healthier lifestyle like all other cool kids in class, don’t ya know.

I’ve even taken the commitment a step further by planting a large, diverse garden to provide fresh food for our meals. I can or freeze anything we don’t eat immediately, assuring we have organic, homegrown grown food all year. My larder is filled with jars of homemade salsa, pickles, jelly, applesauce, and tomato sauce, not to mention jugs of homegrown honey and wine. Add to that my thirty free-range chickens providing anywhere from one to two dozen eggs each day and you could say I’m making decent headway in the organic, eco-friendly lifestyle ideal.  We eat locally grown food without so much as a gallon of gas devoted to the cause.  How’s that for lowering your carbon-footprint?  

The problem is, eating homegrown veggies and eggs is a good start, but it still avoids the most serious environmental and health hazard attached to our food processing systems today – industrial farming. My hobby farm interests have led me to environmentally conscientious reading material. I devour magazines such as Organic Gardening, Hobby Farms, and Mother Earth News and books such as the Omnivore’s Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Mineral. These sources not only teach a reader how to successfully grow salad in the backyard, but increase awareness of the horrors of mass produced food, including those deemed “organic” or “free range”, sad to say.

So, inch-by-inch, I’ve waded deeper into the waters of self-sufficiency so I can verify the origins of my food and consume without guilt. My homegrown beans paved the way for homegrown eggs and honey. Next I bought half a cow and half a pig from a farmer friend. It was a poignant experience to watch the animals grazing lazily in the field knowing that six months later they would be resting in my freezer, but witnessing their natural existence, a life of fresh air, green grass, and a lifespan three times that of forcefully-fattened, factory raised animals alleviated any guilt I had about their impending demise. The grass fed, hormone-free meat provided us with months of guilt-free meals, though I admit I missed the classic perfection of cuts of beef packaged and designed to appeal to the picky consumer. Nevertheless, I cooked the local, organic meat ignoring its imperfection, with reverence and respect for the creatures whose lives were given to nourish my family. But my willingness to do so didn’t help me shake the memory of their doe-like eyes or the way the sun bounced off their soft fur coats, lulling them into a lazy afternoon nap. Without intending to, I started giving up red meat, turning my attention more and more to poultry and fish, creatures with less personality in my opinion.

 Then I had the misfortune of pulling up behind a chicken truck. It was stacked with hundreds of wire cages; each filled with half a dozen chickens stuffed into the two-foot space allotted them. Most of the birds lacked feathers, which I knew was because chickens cannibalize each other when raised without ample space or diversions. They were despondent. Some actually looked dead. Faced with this tangible evidence of the plight of factory-farmed chickens I paused the next time I reached for a chicken nugget. Factory farmed chickens are fed chemical laced food to fight off disease, have a short six week lifespan, and the trip to slaughter house in a speeding truck where the cold air steals their breath may be the only natural sunshine they ever witness. Every time I buy chicken from the grocery store, or order it in a restaurant, I’m supporting this barbaric system, and suddenly grilled cheese or Tuna sandwiches are all that’s left on my idea of a moral menu. Even buying “free range” doesn’t guarantee the creatures live a natural life, because these birds also live in crowded conditions and all a company need do is provide an 8 by 8 concrete pad for them to step outside on for perhaps an hour a day to qualify as “free range”. Labels can be misleading.

My chickens at home live full, pleasurable lives, but still it’s easier for me to buy Purdue chickens, neatly packaged and trimmed up for consumption, than to consider the alternative. I just can’t imagine myself being the instrument of any animal’s demise, which is why I have laying chickens, rather than broilers-fryers at home.  Eggs are a perfect excuse for not slaughtering chickens, don’t ya know.

But more and more often, I’m experiencing mixed feelings over my willingness to support industrial farm practices because it is “convenient” to do so. I should just become a vegetarian, and I would, if only I didn’t happen to like eating meat so much.  So how do I balance my ethics regarding what I consume?

When you raise a goat, hog or cow, you can load it in a trailer, take it to the butcher and pick it up later wrapped up in neat, white paper. If you don’t want to raise the beast yourself, you can always find someone willing to sell you half a steer around here, and knowing the animal lived a life of dignity makes eating it seem less barbaric. Unfortunately, there’s no such service for poultry. It just wouldn’t be cost efficient or practical to cart a bird to someone else to dress, so eating homegrown poultry involves raising, killing, blanching and plucking the beast yourself. Frankly, that pushes my inner farm-girl beyond the limits of what’s comfortable or fun – afterall, taking up poultry slaughtering would be difficult on my perfectly polished, acrylic nails, not to mention that it will no doubt give me nightmares.

But eating in this hypocritical way continues to haunt me. The fact is, a creature dies every time we order a chicken potpie, and trying to remain distanced from that reality is like sprinkling Novocain on your dinner instead of salt. I think an important part of the human experience involves being fully aware and conscious of our choices and how they impact the world at large. Choosing to distance ourselves from our food sources is ignorance in its most offensive form.

So, after two seasons of thinking about it, and months of questioning my own mettle, I’ve presented myself with the great Turkey Challenge. I’m told turkeys are stupid, smelly beasts and it’s unlikely I’ll grow fond of them. That said, when the time comes, I’ll should be ready and able to shout “Off with their heads!” like the Queen of Hearts. And yet . . . they sure are cute, shy creatures now, peeping away in their cage with absolute innocence, so I wonder . . .   will I’ll end up with five turkey pets for years to come?

Least you get the impression that I’m planning to begin a lifetime campaign of raising all my own food and slaughtering every future holiday meal in my backyard, let me assure you that while it would be admirable, becoming a serious farmer isn’t my long-term plan. I can’t see devoting a good chunk of my life to the manual labor of beheading and plucking poultry, even if I’m willing and able. But I do want to see if I can do it once, as a way of exploring the origins of my food sources. Raising and slaughtering a bird, being instrumental to its life and death, will alter how, when, where and if I purchase certain foods forevermore. Somehow I feel being a part of the process from start to finish will earn me the right to eat poultry. If I can’t stomach carving my Thanksgiving turkey because I am all too aware that he was once a creature that fluffed his feathers and looked up when I said good morning with a bucket of feed, than I shouldn’t be eating turkey anyway. I’ll become a vegetarian, and in that way, live true to my newly clarified ideals.

Call me crazy, but I need more than an academic understanding of what life is all about – I want to explore the human experience firsthand, without avoiding anything considered “unpleasant” because clinging to blissful ignorance is more comfortable. People have ventured so far from nature’s original design in their rush to embrace the neat, pre-packaged, commercial world that I sometimes wonder if we’ve all become too lost to ever find our way back to what is natural and real.

So, in six months, I’ll either slaughter my first (and perhaps only) turkey . . . or I won’t. What you are willing to do theoretically and what you will do in reality is often worlds apart.  But I’m not going to pass judgment about what is right or wrong regarding human consumption until I’ve experienced firsthand what the issue entails. So in the interest of testing my environmental and ethical ideals, I’ve set up the great Turkey Experiment.

You, lucky reader, can start placing your bets.

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Ommmmmmmmm………..

Posted on February 26, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

I’m going to be a yogi. Oh, you don’t have to go hiding your
picnic basket. I’m not going to be THAT kind of yogi, you Boo Boo. 

I’ve decided to attend intensive teacher’s training to be a
yoga teacher at a qualified yoga institute in Atlanta. The course takes about 6
months and is set over 9 long weekends (twelve hour days) with independent
study and daily practice in between seminars. I’m told it will be a life
altering experience. I don’t know about that, but I am looking forward to
expanding my awareness of movement from a new angle, one more centered on
interior awareness and spirituality than on the more surface, visual elements
of dance.

 To apply, I had to answer ten questions in essay form,
questions that asked who I am, why I am seeking Yoga training, what phase of
life I’m in and what new phase I may be entering. I thought, phase? Are the interests I’m pursuing at
this age phases? It doesn’t feel that
way. It feels as if all my interests are connected, like I’m collecting information
that links together in one long ongoing study of the world. I’m  expanding my understanding of people and
life to gain self awareness while also building skills that provide opportunity
for work and pleasure.  But perhaps
that is just a fancy sentence for describing me in a phase.     

Tomorrow I’m driving to Atlanta for a personal interview
with the director of the program. I will have to do some basic yoga on a mat for
him to establish whether or not I’m physically capable of the challenge (no
worries), and he wants to explain more about the program to see if we are a
good “fit”.  After a lifetime of
dance training, and lots of little side diversions that included things like
getting aerobics certified, creating and hosting a teacher’s training seminar in
our business, and/or studying eastern religions in college, I feel ready to embrace
this new form of movement/art/life philosophy (however you want to view it)
both academically and on a more intimate personal level.

 So, I’m going to be turning 50 in a few weeks and I’m
celebrating by becoming a yogi. Perhaps the wisdom gained from living half a
century will come in handy here, at least enough to make up for my 50 year old ligaments
that I’m guessing will rebel when I’m asked to twist myself up into a pretzel
and balance on my head and say “ommmmmmmm”.

When I talked to Graham, the director of the training
program, he said, “I’ve enjoyed reading your application. You’ve led a fascinating
life. I think you are one of the more interesting applicants we’ve received.”

I said, “Well, my life is never boring, that is for
sure.”  Made me laugh later,
because I don’t consider my life all that unique or “fascinating” but guess it
is fair to say it  does always
evolve and change, and for that I’m grateful. I’ve gone from dance in the most
urban city in the world (New York) to raising llamas in a quiet corner of the Appalachia.
Never thought that would be where I’d end when I was a teenager dreaming of who
and what I’d grow up to be. But diverse experiences is a way of walking all the
way around the American elephant to discover life is more than a trunk or
floppy ears. (You have to know the blind guys meeting an elephant story to get
that metaphor, sorry.)  

Anyway, you may wonder, why yoga? I could be a flippant brat
and say Why not?, but that would be annoying so I’ll answer.   

1.    
I have a business plan, marketing plan and even
a location picked out for opening a dance studio here, but now the entire idea
is in a holding pattern. Lots of mixed feelings about following this path once
again, starting with not wanting to invite that madness into my world again,
and ending with concerns that once I engage in a new business, I’m planting
serious roots here that rob me of the freedom to leave, at least for a handful
of years. For all the glorious and enriching elements that come with living in
a slow paced town with nature all around me , there are equally strong
drawbacks because intellectual stimulus is severely limited here. Some days, I
feel like I’m going to go crazy, other days, I feel like I landed in the only
place a soul can feel whole. I guess I had similar mixed feelings in the
bustling world we left behind – fullfillment is a mater of where your focus is
in any given moment. Opening a studio may provide the challenge and the balance
of meaningful work along with meaningful lifestyle that I need to be content
here. But it may just as easily trap me. The question is, do I want to live
here and keep visiting Atlanta, or live in a place like Atlanta and visit
someplace like this. It’s a value system thing.

2.    
I am taking a weekly yoga class here in a town
30 minutes away from my house, and I’m enjoying it, but the truth is, it’s not
as satisfying a class as those I took at a yoga center in Florida. I find my
mind wandering in the lesson thinking, “If I was the teacher, I’d explain that
pose more thoroughly”, or “she should explain the interior thought process that
helps people meditate at this portion of the class,” and so on. Not that I’m
being critical, but more that I am a natural teacher and after 30 years of
leading classes, I can’t resist thrusting myself into the instructors role. A
few weeks ago, after trying to explain to Denver (new to yoga) how some Yoga
experiences are more involved, it occurred to me I should look into yoga training.
There is clearly a niche that needs to be filled in my area. That, of course,
lead to my finding some strong facilities in Atlanta with comprehensive
programs and one thing led to another….. and well, the spark of an idea is all
it takes for me.

 I figure, once I am certified by the Yoga Alliance,
America’s leading yoga organization, I’ll have one more skill to enrich my life
and provide opportunity. I may teach for the new health club in town (which has
a small aerobics room, but no classes as yet because of a lack of teachers) or
I’ll open another dance school here with an adult health and fitness program,
and evolve my vision for a dance studio so it is not just a center for youth
entertainment but a place designed for the unique needs of the population here.
Or, maybe I’ll use the yoga experience to write some articles for fitness
magazines or for fodder for a story. Maybe (and this is my deepest, secret
dream … ha, not such a secret now) I will find a way to combine yoga with
memoir and journal writing to create a class where people can reflect deeper
upon their personal truths, sort of a writing class with physical exercises to
open the paths to creativity…. OK, don’t laugh at me. Honestly, I feel I can
combine my MFA training with the yoga thing, and along with my natural teaching
instincts , create an intimate learning experience that would impact others in
a great way. Don’t know where I’d host such a class, but ya never can tell . . 

If nothing else, becoming yoga certified will help me be
more disciplined with my personal practice. That would be nice too.

 Tomorrow, I’ll write about my first venture to the yoga
center and meeting the director. I’ll share the experience, and report all my
aches and pains along the way, and knowing me, it will not be with the non-judgmental,
loving, open mind of a seasoned yogi – unless it is truly a life altering (and
person altering) event. What can I say. I’m still me. Perhaps becoming a yogi will
help in that department.

Now, I have to go feed the animals. This is the day I drive
to Marietta to take my weekly horseback riding lesson. This is my third week.
I’m determined to become skilled enough to handle my highbred pinto saddle bred
myself, or I’m going to sell her. She is too expensive to keep as a yard ornament,
and this spring is the make it or break it time for me and horses. Love them to
pieces, but there is only so much time and energy in a person’s life, and
unless I know enough to enjoy these animals and ride safely, what is the point?

 There is more to talk about – real estate talk. Mark won
rookie of the year as the strongest newcomer with the most sales in the tri-county
area, and he is the new superstar of real estate – not that that surprises
anyone. I am actually going to get my real estate license, not because I want
to be a realtor (I don’t) but because he needs help, and rather than hire
someone, I can be his assistant a couple days a week. I’m not much for sales
and don’t have an affinity for houses like he does, but I miss working with my
spouse – there was a great energy in that – and I rather we work together to
support the family so he can come home at a reasonable time  than let him shoulder the entire burden
and come home too exhausted to enjoy time with the family.  The imbalance doesn’t sit well with me.
Beside which, he has this entire second life away from the one we share
together, and I want a better understanding of what he does and the stresses
involved. So, I’m going to get a realtor’s license as a support vehicle for my
life partner. Who knows, I might actually like real estate when I get involved,
and it might sway me from opening a studio… or I will hate it and realize I’m
meant to open a studio. Or heck, it could lead to something else altogether.
Life is funny that way.  

 So, I proceed with an open mind.  I’ll be a 
dancing, writing, realtor yogi that rides a saddle bred well enough to
be in a rodeo, and ends every day with a glass of homemade wine and dinner made
from her farming experiments. 
How’s that for a demonstration of what one gal can do in 50 years?

 Must go. But I promise not to disappear for so long anymore.
 I’ve gotten far behind – friends expect an undate on Kathy’s literacy adventure, the baby llama, writing pursuits, and more. Shame on me. 

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The simple life?

Posted on January 28, 2009 by Ginny East Shaddock

Newsflash – the simple life is not necessarily the easy
life.  Of course, I figured that
out the first year we lived here, but somehow, I kept thinking it would get
easier with more experience. Actually, the opposite is true. The longer we live
here, the more the attitudes and behavior of our former fast paced life slip
away (i.e. the treadmill of working to support endless consuming and waste in
search of relief from the endless work required to support the lifestyle).  I miss the energy and convenience of our
former world, but not enough to lose myself in that lifestyle again and turn
away again from my new habit of savoring life, seeking meaning and feeling
present and connected. But still, the simple life is not easy. It takes effort,
sacrifice and a big ego wallop.

 This week’s fun . . .

My bees are dead. Not all of them, just the two new hives
that I set up last spring. My old hive is growing stronger every year and it’s
filled with bustling, energetic bees. I’ll be taking honey off them twice this
year, probably getting ten pounds or more. But the other two beehives are
empty, save a few dead bugs on the floor and empty wax comb.  It’s not uncommon for new beehives to
have trouble in the early stages. A hive can die off due to disease or
starvation. They can be robbed of the vital honey required to survive by other,
stronger beehives. Sometimes they simply decide their home is not secure so
they swarm, just packing up their members and moving someplace else. 

 A few weeks ago we had a killer cold front come in. I
happened to be visiting Florida, so Kent had to deal with lugging water to the
llamas and cracking frozen ice for the chickens. When I came home, I was making
the rounds checking my animals and I noticed the top of two beehives had blown
off during the wind. One was from a new hive, and the other was from my
established hive. I don’t think the lids were off more than a night, and there
is still a wooden top with center hole in it covering the boxes anyway, but I
was concerned about exposure. So when we had a lovely 65 degree day a few days
later, I decided to check the bees and perhaps feed them as a treat since I kept
seeing bees around my animal cages trying to scrounge for something sweet and
there is nothing blooming outside. I mixed up five pounds of sugar with water
in a gallon jug and took it to the hives. As I approached, I was delighted to
see hundreds of bees swarming, but on closer look they were all from my
established hive. No action around my two newer hives. Uh Oh.

 I opened the lid. The hive that had lost the top was
completely empty. Drat. I went to the other new hive, hoping that one fared
better. Inside was a clump of dead bees and a box full of wax comb, but the
hive had long since died out. I wasn’t all that surprised. Both of these new
hives were hobbling along last fall, with erratic and disorganized honeycomb. I
knew something wasn’t right but still, the bees were multiplying.  I guess they died in the last two months
or so.

 Now, I have to figure out what went wrong so I learn from
the mistake. That is the part of this new lifestyle that gets frustrating. The
mistakes are endless, and sometimes, just plain sad. Both of the new hives are
made of polyurethane foam,  a new
fangled beehive product that is supposed to be easier to lift. As a woman
handling these heavy supers alone, I thought that sounded great. But these
hives didn’t get off to a good start from the get go, and all along I’ve been
blaming it on the one different element – in this case, the product. I’ve been
bothered that I didn’t set up another traditional wooden beehive since I at
least know what to expect from that. Of course, I don’t know for sure it is the
hive material. It could just be that the bees I bought were inferior, or that
they didn’t get a good start because the neighboring hive was robbing them.
Perhaps it is because the darn hives are leaning forward a bit (I’m still
waiting for my husband to make me a sturdy table to hold my hives, and they are
sitting on concrete blocks at a bad angle.

 The new hives and the two, three pound packages of bees that
I invested in to set up this new system cost me about 250 dollars, so I don’t
want to just toss the valuable supplies away if I don’t have to – but I also
don’t want to pay 100.00 or more for more bees and spend another whole year
working on them if the dang hives are going to die next winter too, before I
ever get a dab of honey. Thus, my dilemma.

 I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with the empty
hives and all that wax comb. Can I put a new package of bees in there this
spring, giving them a head start, or would this confuse them, or cause a
further disorganized hive? Perhaps I should scrape it all out and give the wax
to Mark for woodworking, or make some beeswax candles so my project isn’t a total
loss. Then, do I try using the lightweight hive again, or cut my losses and
stick with the one product that worked for me? Shall I attempt to split my
strong hive and make a new hive for free, or will that cause me to weaken the
one good hive I have? And why bother if I’m going to put them in the hive that couldn’t support bees last season anyway? Besides which, I barely know what I’m doing when it comes
to splitting hives….

 At this point, I guess I’ll just wait till spring to take it
all apart and make a decision.  I
sure was excited to have three hives going. Makes the effort seem more
worthwhile. Dang. 

We’ve had a particularly wet, yet mild winter. I let my
angora rabbits go too long without pulling wool, which was evident because the
cage was getting big clumps of angora fur caught in the bars, and the animals
were looking horrible. When you don’t groom and remove the fur, it clumps and
felts, turning into one solid mass. So, I decided to spend some time on the
rabbits. I had intentions to just cut a few inches of hair so they would be
more comfortable, but once I started I discovered a solid clump of fur next to
their skin. Dang. I cut off what I could. I didn’t want to cut it too short
because I knew we could get a cold front any day, but I also didn’t want to
leave all this clumped mass of fur on my rabbits or the new hair would grow out
and be tangled and I wouldn’t be able to use it later, when I had the time and
interest to do so. In the end, I really only worked on two of the rabbits, but
I cut away more than I probably should, wanting to start fresh and being
consumed with trying to get rid of all that matted hair. Of course, a week
later, we had the worst cold front we’ve experienced in six years. The weather
went down to 2 degrees at night. I was awash in guilt, imagining my rabbits
shivering and miserable because I removed their protective coats.  Is it not enough that these poor
rabbits suffer all summer because it’s too hot, now I have to make them cold
too???? When I went to feed them, I saw they had crawled under the hay for
extra warmth. Gee, that made me feel bad. 
And I still had two rabbits that needed some kind of grooming, so the
next nice day, I gave them a hair cut too, only this time I didn’t cut the
fiber so low. I figured I had to leave the felted mass on their bodies even if
it did ruin the fiber for me come spring. 
Then (and here is another example of the endless learning curve) the
next day I went to visit the rabbits, and damn if they don’t look like I didn’t
cut them at all. They must have scratched away at that felted mess until it was
a soft and loose as freshly grown wool. They had big, round fury bodies and
they looked warm, happy and much more comfortable. I’ve had angoras for three
years, but never knew they would do that with matted hair. Chalk up another new
lesson on working the farm.  It is
endless. Will I ever be so experienced that I’ll live one day without an “Uh oh”,
or “Oh my” moment?

  Of course, I
love learning new things. I love the discovery, the challenge, the sense of
accomplishment that comes with amassing new skills. But some days, I really
miss being an authority in my field – any field.

 I haven’t been blogging much because I’ve been focused on
more formal writing – steadily working on the books I may never sell. How’s
that for productivity? I was also was introduced to facebook by a friend and I’ve
been linking up with “friends” as they find me, enjoying perusing their sites,
looking at pictures and catching up. Remarkable, this plugged in generation and
the erratic way everyone communicates now.  I hobble along, fascinated with this medium even though it feels
harried and incomplete to me.  

 Mark works all the time now. He’s a natural at real estate
and I’m proud of him, but I’m wicked lonely and I crave meaningful work. I’m actually
seriously thinking about opening a dance studio next year (My friend George in
middle America doing the “I told ya so” laugh right now – he told me I wouldn’t
last a year, but in my own defense, I’ve held out for FOUR years. Remarkable
considering my personality.) So, I’m writing business plans, checking out
locations and doing plenty of soul searching. There are elements of the dance
school business I refuse to invite back into my life, but there are wonderful,
enriching elements of sharing dance with young people that I miss and after a four-year
sabbatical I’m ready to put up with SOME of the crap attached to the joy. The
challenge will be in structuring a positive, creative, artistic environment
where dance is what counts -keeping dance parents and egotistical students from
turning the beautiful process into a drama fest.  But I honestly believe that my umpteen years of experience
have left me with the wisdom to do it right. I certainly know where to draw the
line so I won’t crack up and walk ever again. Anyway, you can laugh at my naïveté
and idealism later when I am pulling out my hair at yet another recital. One
thing is for sure; the children of this community NEED a decent school. The
young women around here need a role model – they need a positive relationship
with a woman who is down to earth and straight-laced, educated, creative, and
community oriented, and as ambitious as she is family oriented. They need to be
shown that a woman can become more than someone who just gets married at
sixteen and has kids…. Or obsessively works at the cost of inner growth
(forgive me, that sounds like I’m judging – but really, the kids here need
positive role models and they need a positive place to put their energies. They
also need a way out of this community and dance scholarships might be one way.)

 Anyway, this whole thing began when Neva started begging me
to dance and I realized I couldn’t write a check to the crappy little school
available here. If my kid is going to dance, it has to be in a way that teaches
her the true beauty of the art – and her training has to such that it will
provide self awareness, self esteem and artistic growth. Some sound dance
technique wouldn’t hurt either.

 So I’m toying with the idea of another studio. The other
day, Mark came into the bedroom and did a little pirouette. I laughed and said,
“What is that?”

He flopped on the bed and said, “I am so ready to teach
again … and so NOT ready at the same time. I have mixed feelings about all this.”

I know what he means. Me too.

 The new studio would be my gig, but Mark offered to be my
ballet teacher if I promised I’d never let another person teach his subject and
undo his hard work. Ha. When it comes to dance we will never change – we have a
certain standard for quality and we’d rather quit than be involved with
training that does not uphold our vision. But hey, if I can get the best ballet
teacher ever to work at my school part time even with strings attached, I’m
willing. The rest will unfold, as it should. One thing is for sure – I want to
keep it small so I never lose control of quality or the general attitude of the
place.   

 So that is the update. Dead bees, bald rabbits and a dance
school glimmer in my eye.

Not much news on the writing front. The weather is drab and
it puts me in a funk. This is the only month I ever miss Florida. I’m holding
out for spring where a girl’s fancy turns to her new garden, baby chicks and
bottling the wine that has been sitting in a carboy for ten months. Yes, there’s
always a lot to look forward to if you remember it’s the little things that count… 

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Crappy Gray Chicken and me

Posted on December 31, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

     This week, I caught crappy gray chicken. Sometimes you need an accomplishment like that to feel you have a grip on your world.
     Crappy Gray Chicken, as I warmly call her, is a young, energetic spring chicken with a crazy fluff on the top of her head. She went wild the first time I let the birds go free so she doesn’t trust me or the chicken pen. Every time I come near she squawks angrily and sprints away on her spindly legs looking like the Road Runner on speed.
     As winter crept in, I noticed I was losing chickens at an alarming rate. When food sources are low, every wild creature in a three mile radius decides my flock is fast food heaven. (It’s only taken me 3 years to figure this out, duh.) So, I’ve decided to close my birds in the big pen for the winter. Not like there’s much to eat in the meadow anyway. The problem is, they’ve been given so much freedom that I never have my birds all inside at one time. A handful of them even prefer to roost in a big fir tree by the chicken house at night rather than go inside where they have protection from the elements and marauding creatures.
     One afternoon, I was bringing a bag brimming with kitchen scraps to the chickens and I noticed the entire flock had followed me into the pen. I closed the door. Voila. The chickens were in for the winter. But when I turned around, I saw Crappy gray chicken peeking at me from around the corner of the chicken house.  I asked Neva to guard the door so the other chickens did not venture out and spent an hour chasing Crappy Gray Chicken, thinking I could scare her into the pen. No luck. Eventually, I gave up and decided I’d just have to catch her another day.
    For a week, I tried luring her into this or the other pens, but she wouldn’t come near. Meanwhile, as I went about my chores or drove by on my way to run errands, I could see her hovering around the door to the pen or pressed up against the back side of the wire fence. Obviously she was feeling ostracized from the flock and deep down, she wanted to join them. She just couldn’t overcome her fear of me. I felt sorry for her, but I was perturbed too. Why did Crappy Gray Chicken have to be so crappy? She should trust the girl with the feed, ya know.
     After two weeks of trying but failing to capture the wayward bird, I decided to let all the chickens go again in hopes that they would all return (crappy gray chicken too) to the henhouse that night because certainly by now a new habit had been formed and everyone had discovered the joy of sleeping inside rather than roosting in a tree. That night as I went to close the pen door, I spied seven chickens sleeping outside in my fir tree. So much for chicken training theory.
    A week later, as I was spreading around a windfall of kitchen scraps from my Christmas feast, the bulk of the flock followed me into the pen again. I closed the door happy for the opportunity to contain the birds yet again before I lost the bulk of them. As I was leaving, one leghorn latecomer stood anxiously at the door. I open it and she ran right by me to be with the group. Now, that’s my idea of a good chicken. I looked at all the hens pecking in the piles of vegetables and leftover stuffing. No Crappy Gray Chicken. She was outside again, peering at me from around the chicken house.
   “I can hear your stomach growling, and I don’t feel sorry for you,” I said to the bird. “A hundred hungry beasts are going to be prowling around here tonight and you are the only one left on the menu, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in this pen.
    She squawked and ran away.
    “You are a Crappy chicken.” I called after her.
     I told myself I didn’t care, but it drove me crazy to see her day after day wandering the perimeter of the pen clearly wanting to be with the others.
    I offered a cash reward to my kids if they could come up with a way to catch Crappy Gray Chicken, but distracted by new Christmas presents they weren’t much motivated. I was on my own.
      I formulated a plan. If I close off the door to the chicken house at night while the birds were all asleep and keep the pen door open with a bunch of chicken scratch and kitchen scraps scattered about, Crappy Gray Chicken will certainly wander in to fill up on the goodies. Then, I’ll just have to sneak down in the morning and close the door without her seeing me. That night, after dark, I went down and propped wire against the chicken coup exit, spread food about and left the big pen door open .
   It was a great plan, except for the fact that in the morning it was raining, which meant Crappy Gray chicken would be tucked in a tree or up in the hayloft. I couldn’t keep the birds trapped in the small chicken house for long, because my roosters would fight if confined and as day crested the flock would be frantic for food and water, rain or no. Chickens are insatiable that way. Feeling guilty and a little bit cruel, I forced the birds to wait until the rain stopped and at about 11:00 went down to the barnyard. Crappy Gray Chicken was in the pen! Quickly, I closed the door (I was inside.) Crappy Gray Chicken freaked and ran as far down the chicken run as she could as if I was one of those disturbed neighbors that made all the babysitters disappear in those teen slasher movies.
   “You are a big scardy-cat, baby,” I called after her.
     I removed the barrier so all the chickens could come streaming out, and they began pecking at their breakfast and squawking at me because they didn’t appreciate their confinement a bit.
    “It was a sacrifice you had to make. One for all and all for one,” I nagged back.
     So now, Crappy Gray Chicken is with her flock, safe from becoming a winter blue plate special and I have boasting rights as a chicken round up specialist. My final conquest for 2008.


  
    Yesterday was a sunny, 55 degree day. The ground was soft from all the rain we’ve been having, so I decided to plant some bulbs I ordered ages ago that have been left in a box in the garage ever since we decided to put the house up for sale. We recently built a nice stone entrance to the land with a directional marker to the “lodge” so potential buyers will be impressed (la-ti-da, whatever). I decided to plant the bulbs around the upturned earth around this new structure so that our house, if it hasn’t sold by spring (or even if it has) will have a prettier drive in. I also want to get rid of the clutter in the garage. 





    I opened the box and my jaw dropped. I had 300 big red Empress Tulip bulbs inside. Must have been sipping my own wine the day I placed that sale order on the internet. I rolled up my sleeves and spent the afternoon planting all those bulbs and a few others that people have given me for gifts or that I picked up in clearance. I do that, see flowers on sale and buy them, then leave them in a corner of the barn or garage because I’m too lazy to actually plant them. My intentions are good, but the follow through is often on on a delayed timer.


   It felt good to be outside on what felt like a spring day even though it was December, and good to get all these collected bulbs in the ground – kind of promising – as if I was buying insurance.  Now, we will certainly sell the house – the heavens will want me around for years to come to witness these bulbs bloom. It’s only fair since I’ve done the work.



     I next decided to sheer my angoras. I hate to remove their hair in the midst of winter, because it still gets cold at night and I expect another cold front to roll in any day now. But I’ve been lax and the poor bunnies are matting with huge clumps of felted angora fur hanging off their bodies and catching on the bars of the cage. This is what happens if you don’t dehair them every 12 weeks or so. I spent two hours clipping clumps of fur and trying to make my poor rabbits comfortable again, my guilt raging.  This did put a small damper on my Crappy Chicken conquest, but in the end, it was nice to have another task off my to-do list. Today, I’ll work on the other two angora rabbits – can’t start a new year with unfinished chores nagging at the back of your mind.


    As I was working on the rabbits, bees kept swarming around my head.  I noticed a dozen of them in the rabbit cages crawling over their food. I noticed even more bees in the chicken house crawling on the corn feed. Weird. I guess the warm weather has them out of the hive, but this late in the year nothing is blooming so they’re trying to find sugar in these offerings. Today, I’ll mix up a big batch of sugar water as a late Christmas present and remind them to be patient. In the spring, they’ll have 300 new tulips to visit. They can turn those sweet flowers into honey – an extra bonus for my efforts. Cool.


      I’m going back to work full time by September. I’ll discuss my plans another time (since I haven’t decided  exactly what I’m going to do yet), but knowing this casts a sense of poignant appreciation for the sweet creatures I spend time caring for now. Will I have time for you all next December? I wonder. Will spending an afternoon planting bulbs be a thing of the past? Will I lose this wonderful feeling of peace and tranquility that fills me everyday when I’m outside doing simple chores, convening with nature and my thoughts? Will this sense of connection with the earth stay with me, or get buried under worldly responsibilities and silly ambition when I rejoin the workforce? What will happen to the books that lie inside me, some dormant, others fighting to be set free?
 


I guess that is up to me. Remind me of that if I need reminding later.

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Nuts to Chestnuts!

Posted on December 24, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

I’m almost fifty years old and I’ve never roasted chestnuts. I’ve sung about it plenty, but never actually roasted chestnuts on an open fire. Never even ate a chestnut. Go figure. 


I often pull recipes out of cooking magazines and keep them in neat plastic page savers to create my own cookbooks. A few years ago, I collected a recipe for roasted chestnuts and mushrooms. Every Christmas I think about making it, but I don’t because I can’t find chestnuts in the supermarket and I never think to order them in advance. Yesterday, I’m in the supermarket in the produce department and I see a basket of chestnuts on sale for only 99 cents. Clearance special. Ye-haw. I pick up two baskets thinking I’ll try that holiday recipe at long last. Cool.


When I get home, I flip open my recipe book and see that I’m supposed to use canned, roasted chestnuts. Mine are raw, still in the shell. No problem. I’ll just figure out how to roast them. They’ve been doing it for a hundred years (the song is proof) so how hard can it be? I go on-line to get the know how and learn that I should cut a slit in the shells (no easy task, I assure you) put them on a cookie sheet, and roast them at 450 for 20 minutes. Then, I’m to press the moisture out of the nut, remove the outer shells and I’ll have freshly roasted chestnuts for the recipe. I go about this laborious chore feeling very Christmassy. I’m humming the song, of course.


When the timer goes off I turn off the oven and open the door. A waft of smoke almost affiliates me. I cough and gag and pull out the cookie sheet to see little black, shriveled chestnuts rolling about. I put a few in a kitchen towel to “squeeze out the moisture” but they’re as dry as a bone. Hummm….. I crack one open and even though it is hot enough to burn my tongue, I take a bite. Almost break a tooth. The nutmeat inside is as hard the shell and the taste is like a combination of cardboard and bitter chalk, not unlike taking a bite out of a raw cinnamon stick hoping it just might taste like donuts.


I spit out the nut, rub my tongue on the towel then take a huge gulp of coffee (I always cook with coffee or wine, depending on the hour and the dish being created).


Mark comes home and asks what I’m making. I tell him there’s a cheesecake in the oven (his mother’s request) and a sweet potato casserole (his favorite) and sage and sausage stuffing (Kent’s favorite). I just put a peach aspic in the fridge and I was getting ready to start a dessert using my homemade mint cordial (which came out glorious, by the way). I still need to make something chocolate because we’ve invited a few friends and I know they count on getting a chocolate extravaganza when I’m cooking. I’ll finish off or add to these pre-made dishes tomorrow while making the rest of the meal, but I like to get a good start and some things need to be refrigerated overnight. I tell him he’s getting spaghetti for dinner, but he has to wait. I’m in the throws of Christmas feast creation, don’t ya know.


I then point out my crispy chestnuts and give him an overview of my folly. He grimaces and says, “Good. I hate chestnuts.”


“When have you ever had chestnuts?”
 
“A few years ago they sold roasted chestnuts at the holiday in lights display at Callaway Gardens, so I tried them, remember? They were awful.”


“Well, that had to be because they were a mass produced, holiday gimmick. Chestnuts have to be better when made the old fashion way. It’s a pretty famous Christmas thing, roasted chestnuts.”


But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that if the dang things did taste good, you’d find them everywhere this time of year, the same way cocoa drinks become the monthly special at the coffeehouse or peppermint finds it’s way into desserts or ice cream flavors.  Apparently, chestnuts suck and everyone knows it but me.


This morning, I’m going to the supermarket to pick up a pre-ordered prime tenderloin beef roast, my traditional Christmas Eve main course. I wrap it in puffed pastry trucking a layer of sautéed mushrooms under the crispy coating. While there, I might just look for those canned chestnuts. It’s the principal of the thing, you see. I don’t think it’s fair to give up an entire food product without giving it a fair shot, and if I find the one and only recipe that makes chestnuts palatable, it will give me something to brag about every December.  If nothing else, my roasted chestnuts and mushroom-onion sauté will be a horrible side dish that everyone can make fun of – but at least my kids won’t grow up to be fifty never having tasted roasted chestnuts.  I realize I might ruin the song for everyone, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take in the interest of food exploration.


So that’s my plan for today. I’ll be feeding everyone to kick off Christmas indulgence. I’ll start with the big bones I bought for the dogs, move on to the bananas and carrots I have for the angora rabbits and dig out some apples and carrots for the llama and horses. I’m going to clean the fridge so the chickens will have a bag full of wilted produce and fruit to pick at too. Then, I’ll move on to family and friends. I’ll seduce them with my melt in the mouth beef tenderloin and a host of gourmet side dishes, homemade wine, and cordials. There will be an inviting display of desserts awaiting them on the sideboard offering the promise of a sweet finale. This will help them relax, confident that everything I serve is great – then, when they are eating with relish and not paying attention, I’ll spoon those damn chestnuts onto their plate and see what happens.


There is a little Grinch in all of us.
 

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Santa Lives in Blue Ridge

Posted on December 24, 2008 by Ginny East Shaddock

Forget the North Pole. Santa lives in Blue Ridge. I see him all the time.


When I lived in New York, I was convinced I was in the Santa capitol of the world. This time of year, a Santa stood ringing a bell in front of a metal Salvation Army collection pot on every street corner. I’d throw in a few quarters as I passed by thinking, “Are you the one?” Sometimes these Santa’s had dark skin, bushy eyebrows, the wrong colored eyes, or they were too short or too tall. They might be women, young yuppie types, elderly, or so lacking “jolly-ness” that I wasn’t fooled a bit. 


In Blue Ridge, Santa doesn’t wear a red suit and he certainly doesn’t ring a bell to bring attention to himself. He goes about his days like everyone else with a twinkle in his eye and his bushy white beard ungroomed. Often, he wears overalls and work boots. Just the other day, I saw Santa at the hardware store. He was loading his truck with two by fours. As I passed, he nodded and winked. I gasped!


I saw two Santas at the Waffle House last week. Perhaps it was Santa and his brother. Their round stomachs filled the booth leaving little room for the plate of biscuits and gravy they were downing. White hair and beards covered the collars of their flannel plaid shirts and one wore a John Deer baseball cap. They were talking about how the endless rain is making a mess at their barns. Must be tough on the reindeer, I thought.


If you go to Copperhill, there’s a store called Christmas is Here and Santa is inside working the register. On a slow day, he works on his hand-carved wooden bowls in the corner of the shop. You can often see him whittling away at a chunk of wood, proving the elves need help once in a while. He doesn’t wear a Santa suit on an average day any more than an army recruit would go around in full dress uniform, but he’s always in a red shirt. Santa is a subtle guy on an average day.


We have our traditional Santa wanna-bes too. Good Samaritans decked out in red velvet pass out gifts at the bank or make an appearance at fundraisers. A traditional Santa rides the train to the Light up Blue Ridge ceremony and sits in the decorated gazebo in the park to take pictures with the kids. Mrs. Claus hands out peppermint sticks by his side. It’s a lovely holiday tradition, but this year I noticed the real Santa in the crowd, a bit of chew in his cheek and mud on the hem of his work-worn jeans. He was lifting a grandchild over his head to give her a better view of the impostor. Santa has no ego when it comes to having fun. He didn’t ho, ho, ho, but he had a hearty laugh and the way he hugged that child and gave her a tickle to make her squeal gleefully was the epitome of Christmas love to me.


Forget the corny, commercialism that is such a part of Christmas in areas of the country where commerce drives the soul and everyone is too frazzled to pause for a cup of homemade eggnog. If you want to live in a place where Christmas lives in the heart and even Santa understands you don’t have to put on airs, come to Blue Ridge. Christmas is as wholesome and natural here as the holly growing in the woods outside your cabin door, as the deer that dart from the fur trees as you surprise them on a walk, and as real as rubbing elbows with Santa at the coffee shop.

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