We got a little gooseneck filming tool in the post today just minutes before I started today’s drawing so I did a quick movie to see how it works. I like the gooseneck tool, but I need to change my angle. It’s all an experiment.
Anyway! John Joe Badger and I have been diligently working with the poor shocked drone reeds, trying to get them into tune. My pipes teacher Cathy has been sooooo patient, teaching me all about how to remove the reeds ever so carefully and place bits of booger shaped beeswax here and there to teach the reed where to be and how to sound. It’s one part wishful thinking, two parts magic and 1 part engineering. But it’s fun to fiddle with as an escape from this frightful world on some days.
What are you doing to escape reality now and then?
We waited and waited, and now, just like that, the waiting is over and the work begins.
Frankly I don’t really know what I am doing. I don’t know how to tune these reeds, or to make them sing their buzzy, intoxicating song together in unison. It all sounds a bit like a spot of goose bothering just now. I must remember that this is how it is. And likely how it will be for a while still. I have had the set out for a little while each day, even as “regular life” has been quite intervening and busy, more so than normal in these pandemical times.
This instrument is pushing all of my emotional hot-buttons. The “I don’t deserve” and the “I’m not smart enough”. The “aren’t I too old?” and the “who the hell do you think you are” hot buttons which run deep and strong and rear their ugly heads when insecurity beckons. That said, I have done a TON of work over the years on these buttons. Now they serve as reminders of growth. I feel all of these things which make me feel small, and I order the pipes anyway. I take the plunge in spite of the insecurities. I allow myself this luxury even if they aren’t here to impress anyone or make any money. I don’t even have to show them to anyone really. Unless I want to. I allow myself this luxury because the sound of uilleann pipes makes my heart happy. And because I love Irish music. There needn’t be any other reasons than those really.
As an object d’art, they are a stunning thing of beauty and perhaps I will draw them some, outside of the John Joe Badger series, just to draw the form of them. We shall see. For now, I will just play them a bit each day, call my teacher crying, begging for a zoom call to see what needs adjusting. Perhaps one day they might even sound musical. For now though…..
Hiya friends. Amy here, the creatrix of John Joe Badger. It’s a strange time to be drawing gentle, tuneful badgers. There are so many badgers from which to choose in this harsh, fast-paced world.
There is the screaming, spitting, distrustful American badger; the go-your-own-way, screw-everyone-else, “independent” honey badger; and of course our own John Joe Badger, based as a character more on a “European” styled badger.
John Joe loves tea and gathering with fellow woodland animals – even, and perhaps especially – when they differ from him. He is quiet, thoughtful, and believes in fair opportunity for everyone. He believes in the arts (tunes and seascapes are his favorites!) and good, local food, available and affordable to all.
A friend of mine on the book of faces ranted recently “enough of politics!!!” And I hear that. But perhaps todays’ politics are more than “just” politics. Perhaps the choices these days are about life versus death, art and culture as life-saving things. Education and critical thinking as ways forward, not things to be afraid of.
It is difficult to make art, share a joyful tune, laugh at a silly pun, when the world is literally burning. But we MUST!
Today is week 42 of John Joe Badger’s “Twist of Hemp” series. I will bring episode 43 to you when my new pipes arrive from Ireland which might be a few weeks what with one thing and another (unless another idea springs to mind which sometimes happens.) There are tunes to record with my flutilla mates and our capitán of recent weeks Kevin, and tunes to record for the start of our strange new quarter at the Riley School. There are also votes to get out, volunteering opportunities to rock, old dogs to care for, gardens to harvest.
Art is a funny thing. It encompasses so much. And it’s not always what some might consider to be “art”. Sometimes, it’s politics.
There are many mysteries in this thing we call piping. John Joe Badger has heard whispers of a mysterious thing some call ‘The Backstitch’, and he is intrigued. On occasion he thinks he can hear it, in the playing of one further along the piping path, but he does not yet know what it really IS.
Perhaps one day he will figure it out.
For now he will leave backstitching efforts to the mending basket, and merely play the little tunes he knows as best he can.
We are returned safely from travels and settled in, but more on that later……
Recently we heard from Mickey Dunne over in Limerick, Ireland that the half-set of uilleann pipes he is carefully crafting for me is nearly complete. I am very sad that I cannot go to Ireland this fall to collect them in person, meet Mickey and thank him properly. But this is just the way of things, and we soldier on.
Meanwhile, I am as a new parent preparing a nursery with all the necessary accoutrements for the new arrival. This week’s Twist of Hemp offering finds John Joe Badger diligently shopping for all the necessities and sundries so that we will be ready when the pipes (with drones!) finally arrive.
It is week 39 of our weekly adventure, John Joe and I. I am slowly learning a few tunes but still feel clumsy and more at home on the flute. Making a drawing for this series each week helps me keep track of how long I’ve been at this pipes thing while reminding me to just have a little fun with it along the way. It’s been a very long time since I purchased a proper instrument outside of a whistle of delryn flute here or there. I am nervous about it all and trying just to treat it like an investment. In myself, in the music, in the world.
These covid times can mess with our heads if we allow them to. What are you doing to keep yourself sane, grounded and invested in the world? I’m learning tunes, painting and drawing and walking many miles.
Skies – sunsets in particular – have been magnificent. Reminding us of our small place in the world.
Evening jaunts on the boat allow us a break from the heat on shore and affords us quality time together (at once more than we can handle and never enough – how I love this chosen family of mine).
At times we must dock the boat near the little local general store to stock up on supplies. And sometimes we forget our masks and must improvise which results in iconic fashionry.
In this time of fear and uncertainty, we see others and wish them well, while also hoping they never come too close.
The light here in Maine, from a painter’s perspective, is perfection. I take source photos for later use. Balancing the time here, trying not to be selfish. As usual, I would split the artist side of self off to go work in the corner all week bathed in paints while the rest of human self could dive into a book or a group activity in earnest. But the art always calls and there is no splitting. And so here we are. I do the best I can.
It is a gorgeous day outside, and I have a paddleboard planned with my dearest, long time friend (she birthed both my babies with me back in the day, so you get the depth of our connection.) Later, some socially distant music is planned with a fellow Irish musician local to these lakelands and I am grateful to find a tune here in the wilds, so far from home.
I realize that home is only as far away as the next tune, the next friend, the next dip into some paint of any kind.
I am home the minute I can center into a bit of music, or a puddle of paint, or a beautiful fireside conversation with loved ones (while a mysterious mink waterly wanders by with nary a splash.)
There has been daily practicing of the pipes, as the lady pipers group has done a tune trade this summer and my job was to learn a tune from my “tune fairie” and record said tune to share with my mystery tune-provider.
It was terrifying. Honestly.
But I did it, as I am keen to do this. To learn. To find my small place in this tradition. Even as an American with only distant ties to the motherland of this music, even as an adult learner with so very little musical knowledge. Even as merely an artist. Something about all of it makes just sense.
And so I dive in. Best I can. We have limited time, always. Especially when on vacation. Especially when on vacation during a global pandemic. I know this.
This limit is why I paint. Why I play. Why I write.
There is a recent article in Downeast Magazine about Miss Rumphius, a favorite book of mine about bringing beauty into the world as one lives one’s life. I highly recommend it….
It’s the ocean side of this journey, and we couldn’t be happier. It being Tuesday, I have a John Joe Badger drawing to share with you, of course. His journey and mine are interwoven in music and adventure and so, this week’s illustration features oceanic imagery and the stories I love.
Today’s swim found us meeting with high tide and so the dip into the sea was a simple one.
My god-daughter and I stole away from the co-working space, aka home, for the day’s swim and conditions were the best yet. There is nothing like a cold dip and then drying out on warm stone.
I never tire of the view off the coast here. Islands upon islands leading out to the Atlantic ocean proper, all of them offering magical little inlets, coves and wharves which are so picturesque.
I can’t capture all of them, but I capture what I can.
There is a magic to the Atlantic ocean – ancient, mysterious. No matter which side of the pond one finds oneself on.
John Joe Badger finds himself practicing his pipes every day on this trip to Maine (as do I). And he finds himself enjoying the company of friends as well.
We are keen to make contact with seals at some point perhaps and it looks as if John Joe already has.
He plays the tunes he knows for his new friends. Always trying to tap into the magic that the music, and the sea, provide.
Two of the videos above I gleaned from the blog of a favorite artist/writer/friend Terri Windling. *here* is the link. If you want a dose of magic and escape on the internet, go subscribe. It’s always beautiful and worth the time. The other, from Ronan Browne, is a perennial favorite of mine and an air that I play on the flute and am learning on the pipes. It’s a haunting thing, an oceanic melody and I never tire of it.
Thanks, as always, for following along on this escapeful journey of ours.
This evening I was walking the lone, remaining dog up the drive. She doesn’t care for a long walk really, being fully deaf and mostly blind, but she does still like a good ole sniff along. I spied some neighbors walking by. A mother and adult son by the looks of it. They were thick into conversation, and looked up just in time to wave to myself and little Charlie from afar. And I got to thinking about the silverish lining of these strange and grief-full times in which we find ourselves just now.
Today would have been Full Day One at the Swannanoa Gathering and to be quite honest, I have been a bed of ready tears since the day before yesterday. I had texted my friend Peter on Saturday about the snacks and tunes and books-on-tape we might have shared along the drive south together on Sunday if we had been able to actually go.
Then Sunday morning, the waterworks really began as there were videos available from the Celtic Week Staff (only temporary, so click *here* for now, but not forever…) to wish us all well as we weather this heartbreaking non-time.
Thankfully the weather here locally was remarkably reasonable so I went for a hike and a little bicycle ride with the Hub and tried not to think about what we’ve lost this year.
It didn’t work.
I still had a good sob in the bath upon returning home, in spite of a day well spent in good company.
Grief is a funny country. It doesn’t follow the rules of polite society. It’s prickly territory.
Having had a dance with griefs big and small over the years, I figured, let’s just dance with it again and see what happens. As I communicated with all of my favorite summer and musical soul mates we talked of how fortunate we all are to have one another, if but from afar. To have this music in our lives to give us strength in hard times. We are all sad not to be together this year, but we are all hopeful that we will persevere toward better times. We know what we have here. And we are grateful.
So for now we work on our craft, learning new tunes, new instruments maybe. We weather this grief, personally, collectively. We know our loss of this week together is just one small loss in the Grand Scheme. But we grieve anyway.
There are plans to gather online in coming days, weeks, months, as best we can and we solider on with the help of our loved ones who seem to know how hard this is.
Case in point, I was drawing late this afternoon and heard the distinct sound of Irish music coming from outside. And wouldn’t you know, my Hub, knowing how difficult this has all been on me had set up a little ‘beer tent’ in the back yard in honor of Swannanoa. It’s the most thoughtful thing.
I think about that mother and son from my neighborhood and wonder if he, as a young person, is perhaps stuck at home unexpectedly with his parents in this wild, pandemicly charged time. Might they be getting to know each other in new and unexpected ways? I do not know. But maybe.
Small, unexpected silver linings in what is indeed a very dark time in the world.
As for me, I’ve seen more of my garden this year than in years past and I am glad of it, even if it means the work I do in the world will not look as it has in the past, at least this year. Even if it means my adventures have been tamed for the season. I am glad of the time here at home, fraught as it has been with worry about The State of Things.
Do I wish I were with my musical mates this evening down at Swannanoa? Yes, of course I do. But instead, here I am in a different sort of time, trying to make sense of things as they are. Blooming where I am planted.
In a couple of days we will make the quiet drive to Maine. Stealing away like thieves in the night. Before departure, I’ll get the garlic out of the ground for the season, and engage a neighbor to water the rest of the plants while we are away.
I’ll admit to be a bit anxious about the journey. There are no plans to engage anyone or anything once there, besides our extended family. We know how fortunate we are to even have this option of ‘away time’. And this is another prickly level of things. To allow grief for the things in our lives that aren’t happening this year, and joy for the things that are, amidst the complexities of the world at large.
We must make space in our hearts for all of it. To be at once missing wistful tunes in misty mountains outside of Asheville while also making fervent calls to government representatives. To doodle gentle creatures while gardening as if our lives might depend upon it. Perhaps they may yet. We mustn’t lose our capacity for complexity in these times. We must remain richly invested in all of it. The good when we can find it, the difficult when it confronts us, the grief-ridden – especially as a collective of human beans.
In a long ago chapter of our early days together, we were faced with a number of long deployments due to Tony’s work in the Navy. Fortunately, these were in peaceful days and the dangers were relatively few. But nevertheless, the separations were difficult. I used to have a system of whining about it all that gave space for the grieving without wallowing in it. A couple of days of feeling pitiful, with allowances for ice cream for breakfast, an extra bottle of wine or what have you. And then, I’d wipe my tears, and get back to the job at hand. The time eventually passed, possessing its own arc and way. This pandemic is a bit like a long and terrible deployment I think. We have no idea how long it may last. I think it’s vital to let ourselves whinge a bit now and then about the waves of losses that have come in the wake of this thing. To be a bit weepy for a day or two in the midst of it all is far better than to armor up completely under the guise of “being strong” or feeling like our small griefs do not count when others have lost so much more. Armor is not good for an open heart.
I hope y’all are keeping safe and sane in these difficult times. We will get through. Together. Seek joy where you can. Lean on one another. Send letters. Have a good sob in the tub now and then. But don’t lose faith all together.
Here’s one more lovely thing as well. I am ever so grateful for music.